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SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 





SIDNEY ELLIOTT 

:f u i ' v 

A NOVEL. 

* 


BY 

M. D. (NATHAN) ! ' ■ 


“All things come round to him who will but wait ” 

LONGFELLOW. 



CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 


819 & 821 Market Street, 


1869. 

V 




to# 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1869, by 

CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 


* 


STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN & SON. 


PRINTED BY MOORE BROS. 


TO 



O F 


MY FATHER. 

















1 




































































PREFACE. 


G OOD wine/’ says the proverb, “ needs no 
bush.” I wish I could think the follow- 
ing pages needed no apology; for such this should 
be called, instead of a Preface. In sending my 
little book to try its fortune in the world, I would 
like to explain how it came to be written. 

Begun, nearly three years ago, as a short maga- 
zine-story, it has, line by line, page by page, grown, 
to my own surprise, into its present dimensions. No 
one can be more sensible than myself of its many 
imperfections. It makes no pretension to fine writ- 
ing, to stirring incident — it is but a picture of life as 
it has come under my own observation. 

Its composition has filled the few busy moments 
of an idle life. And if it only affords the reader, 
in its perusal, one-half the pleasure its writing has 
given me, I shall be more than content. 

M. D. N. 

vii 



















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• \ 

CON TENTS. 


. / 

CHAPTER I. page 

MY OWN STORY 1 3 

CHAPTER II. 

MR. MERTON’S VISIT 17 

CHAPTER III. 

PLANS FOR THE FUTURE 20 

CHAPTER IV. 

A BEGINNING 25 

CHAPTER V. 

SUNDRY MATTERS 30 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE RETURN OF SPRING. 35 

CHAPTER VII. 

META GRAY 40 

CHAPTER VIII. 

ANNIE CAMERON’S PLAN 47 

ix 


X 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. PAQE 

WILL CAMERON . 53 

CHAPTERX. 

FRIENDLY DISCUSSIONS . 60 

CHAPTER XI. 

GLIMPSES OF CHARACTER 65 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE NIGHT OF THE CONCERT 75 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE TABLEAU PARTY. 85 

CHAPTER X I Y . 

new-year’s day 92 

CHAPTER XV. 

A TRYING INTERVIEW IOO 

% 

CHAPTER XVI. 

HUGH RALSTON’S ARRIVAL I07 

CHAPTER XVII. 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS 1 1 8 

% 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

PAPfcR WALLS I30 

CHAPTER XIX. 

A DISCOVERY 144 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


CHAPTER XX. ^ge 

WHAT CAME OF THE STORM 1 57 

CHAPTER XXI. 

HALCYON DAYS 1 68 

CHAPTER XXII. 

A BITTER CUP 1 79 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

NEW POWERS I92 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

SICKNESS AND RESIGNATION 201 

CHAPTER XXV. 

META’S STORY 212 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

FIVE YEARS AGO 223 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

LAND AT LAST '. 232 











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SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


CHAPTER I. 


m 


MY OWN STORY. 


DARK, dreary evening, the wind wailing mourn- 



l \ fully around the house, rustling amid the bare 
branches of the trees which overhung the old homestead 
— snow falling heavily from a clouded sky; such was the 
night after my father’s funeral. 

We sat by the fire, my mother and I, thinking of the 
past and planning for the future. Dreary indeed it 
seemed tQ us ; our past had been so cloudless, so peace- 
ful, that we shrank from the life-struggle which lay be- 
fore us. 

My father was a physician of no small repute. He had 
amassed, in the practice of his profession, an ample for- 
tune. We lived in comparative luxury. My father, 
though disclaiming ostentation, believed in solid comfort ; 
and our home was one which any might have envied. I 
was the only child ; and my life, till now, had been one 
of unalloyed happiness. It was not to last. My father 
had just determined to relinquish his practice, when the 
failure of the bank in which his savings were invested 


2 


14 


STDNEY ELLIOTT. 


compelled him to abandon his intentions; and, not six 
months later, he was brought home, dead ! 

His horse had taken fright at some object on the road, 
as he was on his way to visit a patient. He was thrown 
on a pile of stones, and instantly killed. John Elliott, 
the good physician, the kind father, the tender hus- 
band, was no more. Our grief, the grief of those who 
knew and loved him, can be better imagined than 
described. 

But we had no time to indulge in the “ luxury of woe.” 
The poor — for among that number we now found our- 
selves — may not sit, weeping, with folded hands. 

As yet, we had not felt the loss of means. My father’s 
practice, even after the loss of his fortune, had brought 
him more than sufficient for our wants, and he had begun 
again to accumulate. 

I sat, silently thinking, till my mother’s voice aroused 
me from my revery. 

“Sidney, dear, what are we to do?” 

“ Do ! mother ? What can we do ? ” 

My poor mother ! dependent, as she had always been, 
upon my father, her gentle, shrinking nature resting on 
his, strong and firm, she turned, now that her stay and 
prop was removed, to me. 

But I was “in no mood to discuss our future prospects. 
My father’s death was a crushing blow to me, and I 
shrank from anything which diverted my thoughts from 
him, who, for the first time, slept under the sod. I shud- 
dered at every wail of the wind; and as the snow fell, 
covering the earth with its pall, I thought how it also lay 
on his grave, and, chilled at the thought, I cowered 
closer by the fire. 

• Alas ! I was selfish in the indulgence of my sorrow. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


15 

Giving myself up to it, I wholly forgot the meek mourner 
who sat near me. 

Her gentle voice recalled me to myself. 

“My poor child ! this has been a hard day for you ! v 

No thought of self, in the wish to console me! O 
mother-love ! pure, holy feeling, thou art, sure, a gift 
from God ! The soft, caressing tone, the quiet thought- 
fulness, roused my better self, and I drew closer to the 
speaker. 

“Sidney, ’t is hard — but—” 

I broke forth passionately: “Hard — mother — hard, 
you say? So hard, that I cannot say, ‘Thy will be 
done!’” 

The calm voice never faltered. 

“Sidney, my child, your father was very dear to me, 
yet I can say, ‘ Thy will be done ! * ” 

I looked up in amaze. I knew how those two lives 
had been blended; their perfect oneness — their deep af- 
fection the one for the other ; yet my mother, frail, fee- 
ble, compared to me, for I had inherited my father's na- 
ture and disposition, was the stronger of the two. 

She saw the surprise in my eyes. Stooping, she kissed 
my brow. 

“Sidney, I look above! that gives me strength. Seek 
you there for it, too. And now, my child, to bed, and 
a night’s rest will better fit us for to-morrow’s duties.” 

A long, loving embrace, and we parted for the night. 

I shall never forget how the next morning came upon 
me. I had gone to my bed, thinking sleep could not 
close my eyes, yet I wept myself to slumber. Completely 
exhausted, I slept till late. And when the bright rays of 
the morning sun at last aroused me, oh ! only those who 
have passed through the same ordeal know how I felt. I 

# 


1 6 


STDNEY ELLIOTT. 


woke with the feeling that something — I could not for 
a moment recall what — had happened. For an instant, 
that blessed oblivion lasted : then all returned to me. 

Why, I thought, did the sun shine so brightly this 
morning? At least, its rays should not lighten my room, 
mocking my dark feelings. Better for me the wail of the 
wind, the clouded sky; and I sprang from my bed to 
draw the blind. 

It was a most lovely morning. The sun shone from a 
sky of deepest blue, unflecked by a single cloud. The 
earth was covered with snow, brilliantly white, and every 
tree was outlined in feathery crystals. I heard the merry 
sleigh-bells, the laughing voices of the riders ; and, throw- 
ing myself once more upon my bed, I burst into bitter 
tears. 

They were too violent to last. And when they had 
spent themselves, and I, startled by a light touch on my 
shoulder, looked up, my mother stood beside me. 

“Are you not coming to breakfast, Sidney?” she 
asked, smoothing my hair caressingly. “It is very late,” 
she continued, as the town-clock at that moment struck 
nine; “and I have been waiting for you, not liking to sit 
down alone. ’ ’ 

I promised to join her soon, and she left me. She had 
spoken calmly, but I saw plainly enough that, unlike my- 
self, she had passed a sleepless night. 

Our meal was sent away almost untasted. I could 
scarcely control myself, but a glance at my mother’s 
sweet, sad face, whenever my feelings nearly overcame 
me, gave me strength, and I resolved that, to avoid in- 
creasing her grief, I would control my own. 

• “And the evening and the morning were the first day.” 


O 


CHAPTER II. 


mr. merton’s visit. 

I DO not think that the “ straitest Pharisee of them all ” 
can possibly object to the quotation closing my first 
chapter. The Bible words, forcible as they are, and uni- 
versally applicable as all find them, seemed particularly 
suitable here. I remember thinking of them then; and I 
now, after the lapse of years, see no reason to change my 
opinion. It was, indeed, the beginning of a new life 
for me — “the first day” I had realized the change that 
had come over my worldly prospects. 

The day, bright though it was out of doors, to us passed 
drearily enough. And when night came, I sat, as the 
evening before, over the fire, silently realizing that my 
father was indeed gone. 

So long as the form, lifeless though it be, of our loved 
ones is near us, we cannot realize that they are dead. 
We know ’t is but the clay, soulless, motionless, which, the 
eyes closed, the hands folded over the pulseless heart, lies 
shrouded for the tomb; yet we linger near it — thinking, 
perhaps, ’t is but slumber from which they will soon 
awaken. Vain hope ! the eyes are closed for ever. “ It ’ ’ 
is but the shadow of the departed, yet, oh ! how precious to 
us the sacred remains. Hallowed by the touch of death 
— we gaze silently upon them, checking our tod violent 
emotions in their presence. For while yet the cold form 
rests beneath our roof, we feel our beloved are still with 
us — something of them still lingers near us. It is not till 
the sods are heaped over the grave, not till the earth has 
2* 17 


o 


i8 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


hidden from us all that is left of our lost ones, that we 
realize they are indeed gone; that “the place which 
knew them shall know them no more. ’ ’ 

Thoughts like these passed hurriedly through my mind 
as I sat on a low stool at my mother’s feet. Neither of 
us wept. We were both calm; but I knew well that her 
thoughts were but the echo of my own. 

I was roused from my revery by the ringing of the 
door-bell. A few minutes later, the servant entered, and 
handed my mother a card, bearing the name of “John 
Merton ” and a pencilled request for admission. 

My mother sighed. “I suppose we must see him.” 
A moment later, and he entered the parlor. 

Mr. Merton was an old and tried friend of my father. 
He was a man of perhaps fifty years of age, hale and 
hearty, enjoying life to the utmost, respected and esteemed 
by all who knew him. 

My mother rose to greet him. “ This is indeed kind, 
Mr. Merton.” 

“ I knew you would not consider me an intruder, Mrs. 
Elliott,” he said cheerily, as they shook hands. “And 
how is my friend Sidney ? ” as I advanced to him. His 
eyes were moist as well as my own as I laid my hand in his. 

“You have come to a lonely fireside to-night, Mr. 
Merton,” I said ; “yet the more welcome that you leave 
your own cheerful home to visit ours.” 

My mother smiled sadly. “We are trying to make 
our friend as sad as ourselves.” 

Mr. Merton looked down. “You know, without 
words, that I feel for you,” he said. And from that 
he went on to speak of my father, of the regret ex- 
pressed at his death, of the universal esteem in which 
he was held ; ' and from that he went back to the days 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


19 


when they had been boys and schoolmates together, until 
in these reminiscences the evening quickly slipped away. 

“I had no idea it was so late,” he said at last, looking 
at his watch. “Here it is ten o’clock, and my business 
not yet done. Mrs. Elliott,” to my mother, “by virtue 
of the long friendship which, as you know, existed be- 
tween your husband and myself, will you permit me to 
attend to all the necessary business for you? You might, 
to be sure, find some one more competent, but no one 
more willing to settle your affairs.” 

“ I do not like to trouble you,” she began. 

“ Hush, my dear madam, hush ! Trouble ! Do you 
think John Elliott would have called it trouble to have 
looked over a few papers for an old friend’s widow? 
Not he. And you will let me do for you what your hus- 
band would, under similar circumstances, have done for 
my Mary.” 

She still hesitated. “Would it not take too much 
time from your own business ? ” 

“Not a word more, Mrs. Elliott. I am then to con- 
sider myself your lawyer, and you may send everybody 
to me who comes to worry you.” 

“ Then, Mr. Merton, I can only say this : that there is no 
one in whom I can have more confidence than in yourself. 
I know that you will do the best you can for us.” 

“ I will deal with you as I would with my own wife and 
children,” he said. “ I fear there is but little left for 
you, from my knowledge of my friend’s affairs; but — ” 
“Let us know the worst at once,” my mother said, 
calmly. “ It will be a change, I know; but Sidney and 
I would rather know at once what we are to expect. ’ ’ 

“I will not keep you in suspense. You shall see me 
again in a few days.” 

So the conversation ended. 


CHAPTER III. 


PLANS FOR THE FUTURE. 

I HAD scarcely recognized my mother for the past few 
days. She was one of those gentle, clinging cha- 
racters who seem to need some stronger mind to rest 
upon ; but of late she had roused herself to think and 
speak for us both. It increased greatly my admiration 
for her. 

I had always loved my mother ; but I fairly idolized 
my father. My disposition was like his, as were my 
traits, which may have been partly the reason. But 
how common a thing it is that the daughters best love 
the father, while the sons’ warmest affection is lavished 
on the mother ! She is proud of her sons ; he most loves 
his daughters. She sees in the boys their father’s youth 
renewed ; in- the girls he finds again the charm by which 
their mother won him. 

In the next few days, however, I found that, as I began 
to regain my usual tranquillity, my mother more and more 
leant upon me. Her stay being removed, I was now to 
take its place. It was only her love for me, her wish to 
spare me at first, that had urged her to exertions so much 
at variance with her character; and, in my full apprecia- 
tion of this, I vowed silently that I would henceforth, so 
far as lay in my power, render her future path smooth. 

Mr. Merton came at last. We had both feared to see 
him ; for on his words depended our future. He did not 
keep us long in suspense. 

“I have only a few minutes to spare this morning,” 

20 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT . . 


21 


he said; “but I thought you would like to know the 
state of your affairs.” 

And, in words as gentle as the truth would allow, he 
told us. 

There was very little left for us — a thousand dollars in 
the bank, the house we lived in, and a small cottage in 
the suburbs, the rent of which was perhaps sixty dollars 
a year. That was all. 

“Fortunately, Mrs. Elliott, there are no debts — not 
a penny owing to anybody in the world.” 

“And we are alone in the world ! ” 

I could not help the remark. 

“ Have you no relatives? ” 

“None at all,” my mother replied. “My husband 
was an only child, and. I was an orphan.” 

“I scarcely know what to advise you to do,” he re- 
sumed, after a pause. “There is John’s library, to be 
sure. ’ ’ 

My father’s medical library, to which he alktded, was 
a large and valuable one, collected at great expense. 

“ I will not part with that,” my mother said, coolly. 

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Merton replied. “Of 
course I only spoke in a business point of view ; and, 
perhaps, you had best keep it. Sidney may follow her 
mother’s example.” 

“ I don’t intend to marry,” I said. 

“Nonsense, my dear. I hope you will marry, and 
that right soon. You’ll find it infinitely more agreeable 
to have somebody to work for you than to have to work 
for yourself.” 

There was a pause. He turned to my mother. “ Let 
me know your plans, and I will further them to the best 
of my ability.” And before we could thank him he was 
gone. 


22 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“So we are dependent on our own exertions,” I said, 
at last. “ It is a pleasant prospect for us.” 

“ It might have been worse, Sidney.” 

“I don’t care for myself, mother,” I said; “but it 
will be so hard for you. ’ ’ 

“ My dear, I know all about it.” 

For in her youth she had passed through that living 
slavery — the business of a governess — overworked and 
underpaid, till my father, meeting her in the sick-room 
of one of her pupils, fell in love with, and married her. 

“ There is one thing certain,” I said, at last; “that is, 
we have not enough to live upon, and we must do some- 
thing for our support. ’ ’ 

“Whatever we do,” my mother said, thoughtfully, 
“I don’t want to sell this house. We will keep it, if 
we can.” 

“Sell our home!” I replied, hastily. “Mother, I 
would 'work my fingers to the bone sooner than see it 
pass into the hands of strangers.” 

“It would be very painful to me,” she answered. 
“Here I came a bride, here my children were, born, 
and here my married life was spent. ’ ’ 

“And my whole life,” I added. “Mother, have we 
no one to look to now ? ’ ’ 

“No one in the world,” she replied. “Your father 
was an only child, and my only brother ran away to sea 
when only fifteen, and has never been heard of since. ’ ’ 

“ If he would only come home with a fortune, as uncles 
always do in books, it would end all our difficulties. But 
as it is — ” 

“We must find ways to live.” 

So we came back to our starting point. What we were 
to do, and what we could do, were to be considered. I 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


J 3 


would not listen to my mother’s plan of taking boarders. 
“ You are not fit for it, mother dear ; and we would have 
no privacy in our home.” 

Neither would she agree to my wish to become a daily 
governess. “ Not with my consent, Sidney. I know too 
well what that life is, to expose my only child to it. ’ ’ 

“ We would starve at sewing. Stay ! ” as my eye fell 
on my piano, silent of late ; “the mystery is solved; I 
will give music lessons.” 

It was my one talent. My taste for music had early 
displayed itself, and I had cultivated it with the advantages 
of the best instruction. Even as a child, I could have no 
dearer reward than to be allowed to sit and listen to my 
mother’s playing. She was but a passable performer. But 
so soon as my hands were strong enough to touch the piano, 
almost before I could read, I had insisted upon learning ; 
and from that time every moment I could, I spent at the 
piano. Love of the art, ambition, and the assistance of 
good teachers, are strong incentives, and the consequence 
was, that by the time I was eighteen, I was a very fair 
performer, and my teachers gave me every encourage- 
ment to proceed, telling me that, with practice, I would, 
in time, /equal the best amateurs in the country.) 

“You will find it a hard life, Sidney.” 

“It is the only opening I see before me, mother.” 

And the more I thought of it, the more determined I 
became to carry out my intentions. My duty it seemed 
to be, and though I shrank from the drudgery — from the 
torture to which I knew my musical ear would be exposed — 
I felt I could earn my living by it. 

“So, mother,” I said, after a long discussion on the 
subject, “we need say no more. My path is plain be- 


2 4 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


fore me, and you will see what a nice little income we 
shall soon have.” 

“Provided you find the pupils, Sidney.” 

“ Pupils, mother! I expect to be overrun with them! 
I’ll get a recommendation from my old teacher, Mr. 
Powers; and then, armed with that, I’ll go round among 
our friends. Sidney Elliott against the wprld, and you ’ll 
see if I don’t succeed.” 

“I hope you may, my child.” 

“Of course I will, mother. I have youth, health, and 
strength, three powerful adjuncts; and, as you know, I 
pretend to no beauty. No careful mother need object to 
employing me, lest her sons might, by some mishap, fall 
in love with their sister’s music-teacher.” 

I glanced at the mirror over the mantel as I spoke. 
My words were true enough; I had no claim to. beauty. 
I saw a figure reflected there, about the middle height, 
slight, yet healthful, a low brow, crowned with heavy 
braids of black hair, a pale complexion, and irregular 
features, only redeemed from positive homeliness by a 
pair of large black eyes and a good set of teeth. . My 
heavy black draperies were singularly unbecoming, for I 
needed bright colors, and till now had always worn 
them ; and I turned, with a half sigh, from the reflection 
before me. 

But my mother, I thankfully perceived, had mot seen 
my look, nor heard the sigh. She sat, wearily leaning in 
her chair, gazing into the fire. But I noticed, for the 
first time, how frail and delicate she looked. 

With the resolution that in the future she should know 
no care I could keep from her, I pressed a kiss on her 
brow, and, drawing a chair to the table, sat down to my 
desk to write my letter to Mr. Powers. 


CHAPTER IV. 


A BEGINNING. 

I HAD not long to wait for Mr. Powers’ answer. It 
came almost immediately. After expressing aston- 
ishment at my plans, and giving me the recommendation 
I desired, he went on to say : 

“I am sorry indeed to hear that circumstances have 
• rendered this necessary ; but I have no doubt of your suc- 
cess. Were you here, I could procure you, through my 
own business connection, as many pupils as you could de- 
sire ; and it probably would be the very best thing you 
could feo to remove to our city. I judge, however, from 
your letter, that you wish to remain where you are ; and 
if so, I give you full permission to make use of my name 
in any way you may consider most advantageous to 
yourself. And if at any time you desire to change your 
location, come here, and I will do what I can for you.” 

“ Good for you, Mr. Powers ! ” was my rather unlady- 
like exclamation, as I replaced the letter in its envelope. 
And so soon as breakfast was over — the postman al- 
ways came before that meal — I equipped myself in bon- 
net and cloak, and departed, as I told my mother, to 
seek my fortunes. 

Cheerfully though I had spoken, I was sad enough at 
heart. If it be only “the first step which is hard,” our 
4 ‘ first-step ’ ’ was already taken. All our servants, with one 
solitary exception, had been dismissed. The one we re- 
tained, though strong and willing, was young and inex- 
perienced ; but the difference between the wages paid her 
3 2 5 


2 6 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


and those demanded by an older and better domestic, was 
a serious consideration to us in the reduced condition of 
our finances. 

Still this, though a decided acknowledgment of our 
poverty — how I hated the word! — did not concern the 
public, as did my present resolution. My pride, and I 
had my fair share of that quality, was up in arms against 
letting the world know we were no longer independent 
of it. I had never before cared for public opinion, never 
made any special effort to please or to conciliate. My 
home and my parents had been all-sufficient to me ; their 
praise, their approbation, all I cared for; and knowing, 
as I did, that my name was rarely mentioned without the 
addition of the epithet “proud,” and that many — such 
is the unkindness of the human heart — would rejoice in 
what they would call my humiliation, for so I myself felt 
it, it is not surprising that I started on my expedition, 
necessary though I knew it to be, most reluctantly. 

It was the first time I had been out. I had not even 
been to church ; for I had shrunk from meeting the many 
glances which I knew would be cast upon me. A morbid 
feeling had kept me from meeting any of the friends who 
had visited us, save Mr. Merton, and it was to his house 
I was now bound. 

Before I had walked two squares, the bracing, cold air, 
for it was a calm winter day, late in December, had its 
usual exhilarating effect on me. I trod with a lighter step 
over the crisp snow, and held myself more erect as I 
drank in the pure air, stimulating and strengthening me, 
sending the blood tingling through every vein; so that 
when I reached Mr. Merton’s door, after my half-hour’s 
brisk walk, I felt like a different being from the dispirited, 
cheerless girl who had left her own home not many mo- 
ments before. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT . 


2 7 


My spirits had always been singularly dependent on 
atmospheric influences. The warm, sultry days of sum- 
mer oppressed me;, the rain of that season irritated me. 
But with the first breath of autumn all languor vanished — 
life was strong within me ; I braved all weathers, and no 
day was too cold, no snow sufficient to detain me indoors. 
If I could not enjoy my usual promenade, from which the 
pouring winter rains, common in our latitude, at times de- 
barred me, I would throw a shawl round me, and walk 
up and down the porch of our house rapidly, until I was 
all aglow with the exercise. 

So it was well for me that this day, my day of first bend- 
ing my shoulders to the yoke of labor, should be clear 
and bright; for had it been otherwise, I fear that, like 
the ancient Romans, I might have deemed it an evil au- 
gury, and been superstitious enough, like them, to await 
a more fitting season. 

I met with a warm welcome from Mr. and Mrs. Mer- 
ton. I have already described him. She was a sweet, 
motherly woman, not her husband’s equal in intellect ; 
for, though gifted with that rare thing, practical common 
sense, she was not clever ; but in all kind thoughts, all 
sweet, womanly kindnesses, a fitting mate for him. 

“You are a brave girl, Sidney,” Mr. Merton said, 
approvingly, as I rapidly detailed my plans to him, end- 
ing by showing him Mr. Powers’ letter and an adver- 
tisement I had hastily written before leaving home. 
“Under the circumstances, it is the best thing you can 
do — ” 

“We need a good teacher in town,” Mrs. Merton in- 
terrupted. “Sidney will soon have her choice of schol- 
ars, and first on her list I will put our Carrie.” 

I thanked her warmly. 


28 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“ How are you to get your other pupils?” Mr. Merton 
asked. 

“I thought of going among our friends.” 

“You will do nothing of the kind. Don’t begin by 
making yourself cheap, Sidney. Let people think you 
are doing them a favor; in short, show you feel your 
own value ; and, my word for it, you will have more 
pupils than you can manage.” 

“ Then I need only attend to my advertisement? ” 

“I’ll see to that for you. A newspaper office is not 
a very pleasant place for a young lady to visit.” 

“And my advice is this, Sidney,” Mrs. Merton inter- 
posed; “ ask a fair price at once for your lessons. You had 
better have ten pupils at a fair rate than twenty at a lower. ’ ’ 

I laughed. “ My reputation is yet to be made.” 

“ But, my dear girl, you are fully competent, and why 
should you slave yourself to death ? ’ ’ 

“ My wife is right, Sidney,” Mr. Merton said to me. 
“You want a reasonable income, and there is no reason 
in the world why you should not have it. ’ ’ 

“ I hope I am not unreasonable,” I said; “ but I want 
to earn enough for my mother and myself. She is too 
delicate to work; and you know,” I continued, trying to 
smile, “ I must take my father’s place with her.” 

“True,” Mr. Merton said, thoughtfully; “yours is 
the stronger nature.” 

We talked the matter over thoroughly. At last I got up 
to leave. Mrs. Merton insisted on my remaining to dinner. 

“ Impossible ! My mother is alone.” 

“I had forgotten that. Go, Sidney; I will not de- 
tain you.” 

I lingered a few moments to settle the hours for Car- 
rie’s lessons, and then started for home. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


29 


My walk home was more cheerful than the walk an 
hour or two before had proved. It was a great relief to 
my mind to find that our friends approved' of my inten- 
tions, and Mr. Merton’s advice, soothing as it did my own 
proud feelings, was decidedly satisfactory. 

“Mother,” I said, when the evening paper was brought 
in, “I ’m afraid I shall shock some of our good people.” 

“ What do you mean, Sidney ? ” 

“ Don’t you know some wiseacres think that a woman 
should be such a nonentity, that the public should be in 
total ignorance of her existence, save when the papers 
tell of her marriage or of her death, on which two spe- 
cial occasions, her name is allowed to appear in print ? ’ ’ 

She put down her work, some delicate, fancy knitting, 
and looked at me. 

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong!” I hastily resumed; 
“only I’m in the paper to-night, and I wanted to see 
what you thought of it. ” 

And I pointed to the advertisement, which set forth, in 
the usual phraseology, that “ Miss Sidney Elliott, desiring 
to form a select class of pupils for musical instruction, 
offered her services to the citizens of Fairfield and vicini- 
ty.” Mr. Merton had added his own and Mr. Powers’ 
names as references. 

“ Put it away, Sidney,” she said to me; “I don’t like 
to see it.” 

“ Now, mother ! as if a little work would hurt me.” 

“It is not that,” she said, quietly. “ I cannot bear to 
think of the change it makes in your worldly prospects.” 

“I care nothing for that,” was my proud reply. “A 
crust I had myself earned would be sweeter to me than 
luxuries given by another. ’ ’ 

3 * 


CHAPTER V. 


SUNDRY MATTERS. 

I SOON found out the worth of Mr. Merton’s advice. 

By standing a little on my dignity — no very hard task, 
by the way — I enhanced my own value. Human nature 
only values things in proportion as they are difficult to 
obtain. Give a child a toy, it soon wearies of it ; let the 
same article be made a subject of prohibition, and it will 
immediately become most precious. And the selfsame 
rule applies to children of a larger growth. 

Before the winter was over, I had as many pupils as I 
could do justice to ; and more, I would not take. My in- 
come was amply sufficient for. my wants. 

I learnt too, the truth which I wish all women could 
learn, that happiness is best found in occupation. There 
is no surer cure for grief, no better panacea for listless- 
ness. My time never hung heavily on my hands, and my 
hours of recreation were only the more precious. 

But I was driven to it. To those who, unlike myself, 
are at liberty to dispose of their time at their own will, I 
can only say, let them find some occupation which will 
interest heart and head, and we will find fewer listless, 
discontented girls, fewer weary, disappointed women. 
There would be less gossiping, less ill-feeling — in a 
word, the tone of society would be raised. Why should 
woman be content to fold her talent in a napkin? Not 
that I am any advocate of woman’s rights, female suf- 
frage, or any of that nonsense. I only say to my coun- 
trywomen, throw off the trammels of fashion — dress and 

3 ° 




SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 31 

indolence — cultivate your minds as you now do your 
persons, and you will be amply repaid. 

I did not learn all this at once. At first, I greatly 
rebelled against my position. Naturally indolent, the 
drudgery was hateful to me ; and the feeble efforts some 
of my pupils made at music — music, did I say? it was 
not music — were torture to my sensitive ear. I sometimes 
wished for deafness ; for a false note grated on my mu- 
sical sensibilities as a halting line offends the ear of a poet, 
or as two colors which do not agree are a painter’s aver- 
sion. I hated to hear unskilled fingers stammering through 
the great poems of sound, bringing discord, not harmony, 
from the ivory keys. Often I have felt tempted to push 
aside the pupil, and, taking her place, play the piece 
which, to me, was but a simple form of notes to which 
my fingers would give soul, and inspire them with some- 
thing of the true spirit of music. 

But if my musical ear was thus offended, my pride, too, 
was often hurt. This was often done unintentionally; 
but at times the patronizing, condescending manner of 
some of my acquaintances would bring the blood to my 
cheek, and set every nerve thrilling. 

There was one house to which I went, in my capacity 
as teacher, which I always left feeling as though I had 
passed through a sort of conflict. Mr. Cameron was a 
self-made man, one of our chief merchants. So far as he 
was concerned it did not matter, for I was seldom thrown 
into contact with him ; but his wife and eldest daughter, 
a girl about my own age, were my special aversion. I 
never went there to give a lesson, and I had two pupils in 
the family, that either Mrs. Cameron or Annie did not 
find some occasion to make me indignant. 

“ And are you fully reconciled to your position ? ’ ’ Mrs. 


32 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


Cameron would say. “ Such a pity as it is, Miss Elliott ! ” 
And Annie Cameron, with her lady-like manner, which 
concealed much quiet impertinence, and which was even 
more unpleasant to me than her mother’s ill-bred condo- 
lence, would always reply: 

“Then, mamma, you should be only too glad that you 
can avail yourself of Miss Elliott’s services. You know 
they are invaluable.” 

I imagine they knew no better. But it was hard to 
bear. 

However, this was only one case. In nearly every 
family where I taught, and I taught chiefly among our old 
friends, my loss of fortune, and consequent obligation to 
labor for my bread, made no difference. For our people 
in Fairfield thought labor no disgrace, and we did not 
estimate a man or a woman by the length of their purses. 

Fairfield itself was a quiet enough place. A city it 
called itself, and its size was such as to entitle it to the 
name ; but any one coming from our seaboard cities, with 
their busy, noisy streets, would have thought himself in 
an overgrown country-village. For twenty years it had 
stood still; and, in spite of its many natural advantages, 
its good situation for manufactures, its position on one 
of the chief railroads of the state, like Rip Van Winkle 
it had gone to sleep, and with no prospect of awakening. 
Its inhabitants were content to go on in the same old rou- 
tine, year in and year out ; innovations were regarded with 
suspicion, and did any enterprising stranger happen to 
come into the place, he was very sure, ere long, to settle 
down as quietly as that respectable individual, “the oldest 
inhabitant. ’ ’ 

The town itself was most beautifully situated: com- 
pletely surrounded by hills, none very high, which 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


33 


formed a beautiful rolling country, with here and there a 
sparkling limestone stream; well-cultivated farms, com- 
fortable farm-houses, with their well-filled barns, and 
herds of sleek cattle ; the whole forming, as I have often 
thought, a picture equalling in beauty the far-famed rural 
districts of England. 

I used to sit at my window, looking out upon, the 
country, for we lived almost out of town, and feast my 
eyes on the fair prospect before me. The hills in the 
distance blended their misty blue outline with the horizon, 
with sun and shadow chasing each other over the green 
slopes, on which I watched the snows slowly melt in the 
spring, varying from the pure white to the emerald green 
of the growing wheat. The trees in autumn, in their gor- 
geous livery, rivalling the brilliant hues of sunset, brightest 
before death, formed a fit enclosure for the town, which, 
with its shady streets, lay in the midst of this beautiful 
country. 

Our people had shown good taste in planting the 
streets chiefly with the maple. Its cool, vivid green is 
grateful to the eye in the heats of summer; and in the 
fall, its leaves change to crimson, scarlet, and orange. I 
have seen a maple-tree one mass of golden leaves, save 
one bough, which, in contrast, wore the most vivid scar- 
let. Then, perhaps, you would find one which, retaining 
its green foliage, tipped every branch with gold. An- 
other would stand glorious in orange, scarlet, and green. 
And so on, in endless variety. 

The trees gave the town its only claim to beauty. 
There were only a few handsome buildings in the place. 
Even the churches lacked architectural beauty. They 
were striking evidences of the utilitarian, economical spirit 
of the people. 


34 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


Still there was much solid comfort in the place. The 
wealth of Fairfield was very evenly distributed, and the 
people were proud of their comfortable homes. With a few 
exceptions, the ladies devoted themselves wholly to their 
household duties. Social visiting was scarcely known ; 
there was little or no entertaining ; and, in a word, it was 
as quiet a country town as you well could find. 

Yet I was attached to Fairfield. It was my birth- 
place, and here my whole life had been spent. I was 
accustomed to it. And, after all, what matters it? Our 
fate, whatever that may be, will find us out under any 
circumstances. We need only be patient, and wait. 

Just now, however, I did not trouble myself about the 
future. My earnings were amply sufficient for the wants 
of our small household ; and, while performing to the best 
of my ability the duties each day brought, I “took no 
thought for the morrow.” I had never been given to 
day-dreaming — my views of life were too practical for 
that; so I went on from day to day, thinking, if I did 
think at all on the matter, that 

“ There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, 

Rough-hew them how we will.” 


I was something of a fatalist. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE RETURN OF SPRING. 

S PRING came, that year, unusually early. I had 
looked on the hills, white with winter’s snowy man- 
tle, one bright, sunshiny day, and a week later they were 
green with the young grass. In brighter emerald lay the 
wheat-fields; and walking through my garden, every- 
where along the borders, crocuses, hyacinths, and snow- 
drops already began to send up their green leaves. 

My love for flowers amounted to a passion. My fa- 
ther’s chief recreation had been found in his garden, and 
I was always ready to follow him there. I was more 
familiar with those sweet leaves from Nature’s volume, 
flowers, than with the books with which, now-a-days, the 
world is flooded. I watched the growth of every leaf, the 
unfolding of every bud ; and while I was always glad to 
give my flowers to my friends, I could not bear that any 
hand save my own should pluck them. My mother used to 
say that my father and I knew every plant, leaf, and bud 
that grew in our garden. It was true — not a flower 
could open or fade, not one could be gathered, without 
our knowledge. 

My dear father ! how I missed him now ! How every 
moment recalled him to me, as I silently labored among 
the flowers. Those pleasant gardening hours ! our long 
congenial talks ! — alas ! they were forever over. 

Day by day, spring advanced. The early flowers 
bloomed and faded, the apple-trees covered themselves 
with a snow of blossoms ; and I little cared, as I went 

35 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


36 

on with my daily tasks, for what the future might hold in 
store for me. 

But my quiet days — those days to which, hallowed as 
they were by the mourning for my father, I was after- 
wards to recur as days of peace, so tranquil were they — 
were nearly over. I look back on them now as a season 
of calm ; for the storm of grief which had rushed over 
me at my father’s death was lulled, and, dear as his 
memory was to me, I could at last think of him without 
pain. 

One bright morning, when Nature looked her loveliest, 
wearing her brightest green, as yet untouched by the dust 
of summer or faded by the sun — when the apple-trees, 
like giant nosegays — (did you ever examine a cluster of 
apple-blossoms? — the delicate expanded flower in the 
centre, surrounded by the almost crimson of the buds, is 
something exquisite) — sent everywhere their sweet per- 
fume, while from the hedges of lilac and syringa — a 
prettier name than mock-orange — came the shrill whistle 
of the robin, or the song of the cat-bird, our Northern 
mocking-bird, whose sweetest notes always end in a 
harsh imitation of the animal whose name he bears, yet 
whose familiar manner renders him, in his Quaker coat, 
welcome ; and everywhere hopped and chirped the busy 
sparrows, in their variegated brown plumage ; for the air 
was alive with these feathered minstrels, or, as some 
English poet calls them, “winged joys” — I set out on 
my usual round. 

My mother followed me to the gate. 

“ Sidney, I cannot bear to have you leave me to-day.” 

“ My dear mother ! and why ? ” 

“I don’t know,” she said, sadly. “If I did not 
know that it was absolutely necessary you should go, I 
would keep you at home.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


37 


“I can only promise to come home as soon as possi- 
ble,” I said; “so don’t worry yourself, mother dear, and 
I will return with all the gossip of the town to delight 
your ears.” 

I hated to leave her so much alone, yet what could I 
do ? She had become so wholly dependent on me, that 
I knew the hours of my absence were very hard for her 
to bear. Once I asked her why she held me so precious. 

1 * My child, you are all I have left, ’ ’ was the quiet 
reply, and the calm eyes filled with tears. 

I never asked the question again ; for by my father’s 
grave were two little mounds — all that was left of a 
brother and sister I had never seen; for I was the 
youngest born, and the widow clung to me, the last of 
her loved ones left. 

My task that morning was unusually light. Two of my 
pupils were out of town, and I, not sorry for the inter- 
ruption and the unexpected leisure, went to Mrs. Mer- 
ton’s, there to spend my spare time. 

She seemed glad to see me. “I was just wishing for 
you, Sidney. We are to have an addition to our family.” 

* ‘ Who is coming now ? ” I asked ; for I knew that 
theirs was a house where there was a constant coming 
and going, and that it was but seldom the family sat down 
to table alone. 

“It is no passing visitor this time,” she replied, as I 
thought, seriously. “A niece of Mr. Merton’s is coming 
to make her home with us. She is the child of his only 
sister, and has been boarding for two years past at the 
school where she was educated ; for she is an orphan ; 
and in those years has entered into all the gayety and 
dissipation of a fashionable city life.” 

“ So you will have a gay young lady here? ” 

4 


33 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“Yes. John thinks, as he is her guardian, this ought 
to be her home, and she will be here to-night. I shall 
depend upon you to be a companion for her.” 

“ Not a very congenial one, I fear. My quiet ways 
will scarcely suit a fashionable young lady.” 

“You will find her very attractive, Sidney. I have 
not seen her since she was fifteen, and even then her 
manner was that of a polished woman of the world. 
Meta Gray is no ordinary girl.” 

“ Dear Mrs. Merton ! I believe you are half afraid of 
her.” 

She laughed herself. “ I believe I am. I am so accus- 
tomed to our quiet ways, that I almost dread the change it 
will make. I ’m glad neither of my girls are grown-up.” 

So we sat talking — for Mrs. Merton, though so much 
older than myself, was one of my best friends — till I 
had to leave her ; for my watch told me I must meet my 
other pupils. But I was not suffered to depart until I had 
promised that a few days should bring me to call on Meta 
Gray. 

“ I am glad, Sidney,” my mother said to me that even- 
ing, as we sat together after our tea, ‘ ‘ that you will at 
last have a companion of your own age, one whom you 
will find congenial. You have lived too much among 
older persons.” 

“And I like their society best,” I said. “ I could 
have no better friend than my own mother.” 

“ Still, Sidney, ‘ like loves like.’ My age removes me 
from you; and although I know you love me very dearly, 
more than any one else in the world, you will find that a 
friend of your own age will greatly add to your happiness 
— the more so that you have no sisters. ’ ’ 

I shook my head. “I don’t know; but I doubt if 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 39 

Meta Gray and I are ever more than mere acquaint- 
ances. ’ ’ 

“ I hope it may prove otherwise.” 

I was shy of meeting strangers, and I fairly dreaded 
meeting Miss Gray. From the friendship between us, for 
which my mother and Mrs. Merton hoped, I almost 
shrank ; still I felt some curiosity to see the young lady, 
and it was with very mixed feelings that I prepared my- 
self, a few days later, for Carrie Merton’s music-lesson, 
knowing I should then meet the new inmate of that hos- 
pitable house. 


CHAPTER VII. 


META GRAY. 


ETA has come, Sidney,” was Mrs. Merton’s greet- 



1V1 ing to me as I stepped into the sitting-room. 
“And I was very silly to be afraid of her, for she is just 
as lovely ! — But you must see her for yourself. Carrie, 
go and call your cousin. ’ ’ She spoke to her daughter, a 
bright girl of twelve. 

“Not yet, Mrs. Merton,” I hastily interrupted. “Let 
me give Carrie her lesson, and then I am at your servicp.” 
And I carried my point. But the lesson was barely over, 
when Mrs. Merton and Miss Gray entered the room. 

“I hope you will be good friends,” the elder lady said, 
as she named us to each other. 

“I have heard so much of Miss Elliott, and know her 
so well by reputation,” said a soft, silvery voice, “that I 
shall do my best to carry out Aunt Mary’s wishes.” 

She was one of the loveliest creatures I had ever beheld. 
A slight, yet rounded figdre ; the limbs delicately mould- 
ed, with tiny hands and feet; a complexion like a baby’s, 
pure pink and white; little, pearly teeth, half hid, half 
revealed, by the pouting scarlet lips ; and a wealth of hair, 
true auburn, glinting into gold in the sunshine — such hair 
as the old Italian painters loved to paint, and which, in 
its rich luxuriance, rippling all over the small head, and 
carelessly knotted behind, falling into a mass of curls, 
would have been an artist’s delight. But the eyes were 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


41 


the strangest ! Darkened as they were by long lashes, 
deeper in hue than the hair, they were almost green, such 
eyes as I had read of, but never before seen. Soft, clear, 
dreamy eyes, their wonderful mixture of gray and green 
gave the girl a strange, weird look, a fascination I cannot 
describe ; and, in gazing upon Meta Gray, you forgot her 
beauty, her form, her hair; you only thought of her eyes, 
and the strange glances they cast on you. 

“What is the matter, Miss Elliott? or may I call you 
Sidney?” she asked, laughing, as I stood before her. 

Her words recalled me to myself. I had yielded to 
the fascination of those eyes, until I had wholly forgotten 
my duty as a lady. 

“I beg your pardon, Miss Gray. For a moment, I 
forgot myself. And how can I apologize ? * ’ 

<‘Give me your friendship, Sidney.” We were alone, 
for Mrs. Merton, after the introduction, had left us to- 
gether. “I am an orphan — alone! I have no sister — 
nor have you ! let us fill the place of sisters one to the 
other.” 

The wondrous eyes swam in tears; the low, thrilling 
voice, siren-like, was in my ears, and, girl-like, I pro- 
mised her the friendship she asked. 

“Do you sing, Sidney? With this brow,” passing her 
hand over my forehead as she spoke, “you should have 
musical abilities.” 

“I have no voice,” I replied; “my music is all in my 
finger-ends.” 

“And I can just pick out my accompaniments; so- that 
we can assist each other. ” She turned to the open piano, 
as she spoke, and striking the opening chords, sang a line 
or two of “Allan Percy.” 

Her voice was a rich, pure contralto, thrilling and trem- 
4 * 


42 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


ulous, every note falling round and full, “like pearls on 
scarlet velvet,” true as the tone of a silver bell. I list- 
ened, entranced, and as she paused, I begged her to 
continue. 

“No ! ” she said; “I hate the song, ’t is but a foolish, 
love-sick ditty. I only sing it because there are so few 
songs within the compass of my voice. The soprano was 
ever the favorite with composers.” She selected a piece 
of music from the pile on the piano. “Play this accom- 
paniment for me, and I will sing for you. ’ ’ 

It was Schubert’s “ Serenade.” And it was sung with 
feeling — with an expression wholly indescribable. As I 
struck the last chords I felt my eyes were dim. 

“You foolish girl ! ” she said, lightly. “What do you 
find in music, mere sound, so to move you?” 

“ It is the voice of the soul ! ” I exclaimed, with energy. 
She paused. ‘ ‘ 1 cannot understand it. But my sing- 
ing has a strange effect on many. Music, in itself, is 
nothing to me. I never grow enthusiastic over it — never 
feel *the power some say it possesses ; I only prize my 
voice as a means of shining in society. ’ ’ 

“It would be far more to me,” I said. “To me, the 
power of giving utterance by my voice to the noble com- 
positions of the great masters, to awaken the soul hidden 
in those great tone-poems — ” 

“You are enthusiastic, Sidney. I am too common- 
place to appreciate your rhapsodies.” 

Her tone recalled me to myself. “ I beg your pardon, 
Miss Gray. I forgot we were strangers. ’ ’ 

She looked askance at me, her eyes half closed. I do 
not know why, but I irresistibly thought of that singular 
creation of Holmes, “Elsie Venner.” My eyes fell un- 
der her searching look. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 43 

“We must not be strangers, Sidney. Remember, we 
are to be friends.” 

And, after a few brief sentences, we parted. It was a 
strange first call. Meta Gray was something so totally 
different from any one I had hitherto met, that she puz- 
zled me. Would I ever understand her thoroughly — 
would we ever be friends? While with her, feeling the 
fascination of her manner, I should have answered yes, 
unhesitatingly. Away from her, I could say nothing. 

I was but a poor teacher that day. Meta Gray’s voice 
yet sounded in my ears, her mysterious eyes haunted me, 
and I longed to be alone, to analyze my own feelings. 

“What do you think of her?” my mother asked, as I 
spoke of our meeting. 

“She is beyond me. Perhaps, when I know her bet- 
ter, I can answer you. As it is” — I paused. 

“You are not often so undecided.” 

“Iam imaginative to-day, mother. I doubt not but that 
Miss Gray will turn out, after all, to be only a pretty girl 
with a fine voice, and I shall wonder at myself for think- 
„ ing her anything else.” 

I did not see Meta for several days. At last, as I left 
Mrs. Cameron’s one morning, I met her. 

She looked beautifully. Her airy muslin dress of pale 
green, her light hat trimmed with a wreath of leaves, 
were singularly becoming. 

“Why have I not seen you before?” she asked. 
“Aunt Mary has been wondering what had become of 
you, and I wanted you.” 

“My time is not my own,” I replied. And, showing 
her the roll of music I carried, I added: “My pupils re- 
quire most of my attention.” 

“I had forgotten! How can you, with your love of 
music, stand it ? ’ ’ 


44 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


Now, from any one else, I should only have considered 
this speech impertinent. But her tone was so sympathetic, 
so full of interest, that I answered her : * ‘ Is it not a plea- 
sure to labor for those we love ? ’ ’ 

“Look at that insect, Sidney! ” was the irrelevant re- 
ply, as a butterfly, with his bright, yellow wings, fluttered 
over the fence of a garden, gay with roses, by which we 
were now walking. “Like him, I am a creature of sun- 
shine, unfitted for the storm, caring only for the flowers 
of life — while you” — she paused. 

“You are right, ’ * I said, rather bitterly ; * * you — gay, 
bright creature that you are, what have you to do with 
me — the sober worker?” 

1 ‘ Now you are angry, ’ ’ she laughed. ‘ ‘ I did not mean 
to offend you — you ‘dark lad ye ! ’ Come, smooth your 
brow ; here we are at home, and I promised Aunt Mary 
that I would bring you home to dinner. Your mother 
knows you are to be here, so you must come.” 

Her hand was on mine, her gentle manner won on me, 
and I yielded. 

“You are a very enchantress,” I said to her, as, our 
wrappings laid aside, we sat in the cool parlor. “Now 
sing for me ; for as you have enticed me here, you must 
entertain me.” 

She obeyed me like a child ; and I sat listening to her,- 
wholly forgetful of the flight of time, till we were called 
to dinner. 

“Oh, Mrs. Merton,” I exclaimed, “it is a transition 
from poetry to prose, from romance to reality.” 

“A very agreeable reality,” Mr. Merton said, in reply 
to my rather remarkable speech. “We are not all as 
crazy on the subject of music as you are. How is it, 
puss ? * * 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


45 


He was pulling Meta’s curls as he spoke. 

“ I don’t like your pet name, uncle,” was her pouting 
reply. 

“It just suits you, Meta,” he said. “Playful and 
graceful as you are when pleased, I doubt not but that, 
like puss herself, you can, under the velvet, show your 
claws.” 

“ How can you, John ? ” his wife interrupted. “ Don’t 
mind him, Meta; he is only teasing you.” 

But I did not like the expression on her face. She bit 
her lip to conceal its tremor. It was only for an instant, 
and she was mistress of herself ; and during our meal she 
was the life of the table. 

“ I am so glad you two like each other,” Mrs. Merton 
said to me, as we stood for a moment together. “ Come to 
us when you can, Sidney ; it will be good both for Meta 
and yourself.” 

“ She is very fascinating,” I replied ; “I don’t wonder 
that you like her. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What are you two discussing ? ’ ’ the silvery tones 
asked. She had, noiselessly as a cat, come behind us. 
Mrs. Merton laughed. “We were scolding you, Meta.” 

She looked up archly. “I’m not afraid of that; no- 
body scolds me. Aunty, I ’m going to walk part of the 
way with Sidney.” 

“ You can’t go very far with me, sprite. I ’ve a lesson 
to give in the neighborhood.” 

“And, indeed, Meta, you should stay at home to see 
our friends.” 

“ Callers ! stupid callers ! what care I for them ? ” 

“Meta, you are incorrigible! Sidney, you will have 
to give her some of your sedateness.” 

So Meta and I walked off together. 


46 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT . 


“Are you ever at home?” she asked, after we had 
reached the house at which I had told her she must 
leave me.* 

“Not often,” I replied; “only before nine in the 
morning, and not till after six in the evening.” 

“Then I will come to see you when I can find you. 
Are you an early riser ? ’ * 

“ Come and see,” was my reply; and, with the decla- 
ration that the next morning would find her at our gate, 
she left me. 

Annie Cameron stopped me on my way home. “ Have 
you met Miss Gray? ” she inquired. 

My answer was very brief : “I have.” 

“ So have I,” she rejoined. *f She is quite an acquisi- 
tion to our society. I have just invited her to a little 
musical party at our house, and was on my way to ask 
you to join us.” 

“ Thank you,” I said ; “but my dress must plead my 
excuse.” 

She expressed her regret civilly, but did not press me. 

“Iam indebted to Meta for that invitation, I suppose,” 
was the only thought I gave the matter. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


annie cameron’s plan. 

T HE June roses had blossomed and faded ; the wheat 
was glowing into yellow ripeness in the fields; 
spring had passed away, and summer was rapidly 
waning. It was my brief vacation ; and, though the heat 
was most oppressive, I fairly luxuriated in the leisure it 
gave me. 

Meta had won my mother’s heart. To her she was 
ever soft, gentle, and caressing, and she was always sure 
of a ready welcome to our dwelling. So we were thrown 
much together, and my mother laughed at me for saying 
there was something strange about her. The truth was, 
I did not wholly understand her. She kept me con- 
stantly on the alert, constantly in doubt, and yet she fas- 
cinated me. 

“I believe you think her something ‘ uncanny,’ ” my 
mother said to me one day. “ You are the only person 
in town who does not consider her charming.” 

I was silent, for I could not explain myself — not 
knowing what to think, not thinking, but feeling, for I be- 
lieve I was led mostly by instinct, if I may be allowed to 
use the word. Meta was very popular. She was a uni- 
versal favorite. She sought my society; and though, 
while with her, I was ready to join in the popular ver- 
dict, away from her I wondered at her power over me. 

I was spared reply, which would have been difficult, 

47 


48 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


by the opening of our garden-gate, and the entrance of 
Meta herself, accompanied by Annie Cameron. 

“No, indeed! let us sit here/’ Annie Cameron said, 
in reply to my mother’s invitation to come in. “Your 
porch is so pleasant that we will not disturb you.” 

So my mother brought out more cushions — for she and 
I had been sitting together — and the two girls sat down. 

“What have you been doing with yourself, Sidney?” 
Meta asked. “ Why do you keep so much to yourself?” 

“ I am enjoying the pleasure of doing nothing,” I said, 
lightly; “that is a pleasure you and Annie don't at all 
understand.” 

“I beg your pardon,” said the latter, shrugging her 
pretty shoulders ; “I know so much about it that it has 
ceased to be a pleasure, and become wearisome.” 

“If your moments of leisure were as few and far be- 
tween as mine,” I said, “you would appreciate them as 
I do. For the past few weeks I have fairly luxuriated in 
idleness.” 

“You have fairly earned it, too,” Meta smiled. 

4 ‘ She is not idle, even now, ’ ’ my mother said. ‘ ‘ Look 
at our garden, Annie. It owes all its beauty to Sidney’s 
care. ’ ’ 

And it really was beautiful. Though the roses’ first 
bloom was over, though the lilacs no longer unfolded 
their fragrant purple and white pyramids of bloom, and 
the early bulbs had long since faded, it was a wilderness 
of blossom. Tall gladioli, in their varied colors; clusters 
of pinks, and bright annuals, growing in profusion along 
the^borders ; fuchsias with their graceful bells ; the sober, 
yet sweet mignonette and heliotrope ; and, in the morning, 
the beautiful flowers of the morning-glory — there is a 
whole poem in that name — with the more delicate ipo- 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


49 


moea, and the scarlet and white cypress, their airy ten- 
drils intertwined over frames of rustic-work, formed a pic- 
ture of whose beauty I never wearied. 

“ My garden duty is not work,” I said. “ That is my 
pleasure — a kind of busy idleness.” 

“And do you take care of it all yourself?” Annie 
asked. 

“I do,” I replied, for I was proud of my flowers. 
“It is one of my chief pleasures.” 

“I have no luck with flowers. They never ‘do any 
good,’ as the saying is, for me. I wish you would give 
me a little of your skill,” 

“You probably kill your plants with kindness,” I an- 
swered. “ There is a good deal in judicious letting alone 
— plants do not like rough handling.” 

“Yet most gardeners advocate the free use of the 
knife.” 

“So do I — to keep things in proper bounds. But 
the best teacher is love for your flowers, and they amply 
repay you for your care.” 

“She knows each one individually,” my mother said. 
“ Were you to gather a bouquet, she could tell you where 
each flower in it grew.” 

“We don’t intend putting you to any such test, Sid- 
ney,” Meta interposed. “Annie and I came on business, 
and we have not yet said one word on the subject. ’ ’ 

“Make her promise to consent first,” Annie inter- 
rupted. 

“Oh! we will take no denial,” Meta said, gayly. 
“ So, Sidney, you may as well surrender at discretion.” 

“I make no promises blindly,” I said, in the same 
tone. “ What are you bent on now ? ” 

“You tell her, Annie; I ’m not good at explaining.” 

5 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


50 

“ Our design is on the purses of the community, Sidney. 
We want to raise some money.” 

“ How? and for what purpose? ” 

“ The first shall be last. For what purpose? We wish 
to re-organize our choir, which you know is miserable ; 
and the first thing to be done is to purchase an instru- 
ment.” 

“Easily said, less easily done,” I observed. “What 
steps do you propose to take ? ’ ’ 

“I am coming to the point. Some of the gentlemen 
say, that if the ladies will raise half the amount necessary, 
they will furnish the other half. Stingy fellows — they 
might as well give us the whole at once.” 

‘ ‘ Cannot you raise it by subscription ? ’ ’ 

“No — .that is forbidden. And we don’t want a fair. 
So we intend getting up a concert.” 

“And we want you to join, Sidney,” Meta put in. 
“You are the best musician of us all. Mrs. Elliott, tell 
her she must work with us.” 

My mother laughed. “ She will not refuse you.” 

But I was not at all anxious to join them. I knew a 
good deal of hard work would fall upon me — that I should 
be accompanist in general ; and I did not feel disposed 
to give up so many hours of my brief holiday. All my 
arguments were over-ruled, even my mother siding with 
the girls, and there was nothing left but to yield as grace- 
fully as I could. 

“I am so glad ! ” Meta said to me. “We could not 
have gotten along without you, and it will be quite a plea- 
sant change from the monotony of the town.” 

“Fairfield is certainly very dull,” Annie observed. 
“ Our practicings will, I think, be very pleasant, and the 
first is to be at our house next Thursday evening. And, 


L 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 5 l 

by the way, we shall then have Will at home. You re- 
member him, I suppose.” . 

I did not, and I said so. Will Cameron, after gradu- 
ating at Yale, had remained there to pass through the law 
school, and he was now returning home to practice in his 
native place. 

“Who form your party?” I asked, as the girls spoke 
of leaving. 

Ten or twelve names were mentioned. “You have 
left out Lewis Perkins,” Meta corrected. 

Annie’s cheeks were crimson. Now, if there was any 
one in this world I detested, it was this Lewis Perkins. 
Lewis Cass, as his loving parents had named him — why 
will people desecrate the names of our great men by be- 
stowing them on nonentities? — was a stupid creature, 
whose only redeeming point was his good-nature. Cha- 
racter, he had none ; no energy, plenty of conceit, too 
obtuse to see his own unpopularity, extravagant — in a 
word, what our good people in Fairfield were wont to call 
“dooless.” He was short and stout, with a reddish 
beard, and had there been the faintest trace of expression 
in his face, it might have been called handsome, but it 
was a perfect blank. And this man had been for some 
little time devoted to Annie Cameron. Though she was 
no favorite of mine, I thought her worthy of a better fate. 

“Lewis Perkins!” I echoed. “He lives sixteen 
miles out of town ; and what’s more, he can’t sing ! ” 

“He thinks he can,” Meta interposed. “And poor 
Annie can’t do without him.” 

“Do hush, Meta! ” Annie pleaded. 

“Then we meet early on Thursday?” I asked, un- 
willing to have any discussion. And, the hour being set- 
tled, the girls took leave. 


52 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


It was yet early on Thursday evening when I came 
down, ready dressed. My mother sat on the porch, a 
few white rosebuds and geranium leaves in her hand. 

“I am so glad you are going out, Sidney; you have 
been so little in society that this will do you good.” 

“But I hate to leave you alone,” I said, kneeling by 
her side. 

She passed her hand caressingly over my hair. “ And 
I would not be so selfish as to keep you at home. Don’t 
you think I shall enjoy the knowledge of your pleasure ? ” 
“ I don’t anticipate much pleasure, I am sure. I know 
everybody so slightly that I almost hate to go. ’ ’ 

She smiled. “You will get over that. And, Sidney, 
don’t be too dignified. I used to think,” she went on, 
a moment later, “that I should love, had I a grown 
daughter, to dress and ornament her. But as it is, this is 
all I can now do for her,” and her deft fingers tastefully 
arranged the flowers she held, in my hair. 

‘ 1 1 could ask no better ornament, mother dear, ’ ’ I 
said. ‘bBut ^ must leave you, early as it is, for I prom- 
ised Meta that I would stop for her, and Mr. Merton has 
promised to see me safely home from his house. So 
don’t you sit up for me, or feel worried about me, on this 
my first evening away from you in what the world calls 
gayety — more like labor to me ! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 


WILL CAMERON. 

M ETA was standing on the porch waiting for me, a 
light shawl thrown carelessly over her arm. She 
met me with the words : 

“ You dilatory girl ! what has kept you so late ? ” 

“I am sorry I kept you waiting,” I replied. “ How 
well you look ! ” 

She did look pretty. Her dress, such was the art with 
which it was put on, would have passed muster in any 
ball-room. Yet it was very simple. A transparent white 
muslin, through which shone the rounded whiteness of 
arm and shoulder, a delicate frill of lace at the throat, 
confined with a cluster of scarlet geranium, a belt of the 
same hue at her waist, and the beautiful hair bound by a 
ribbon matching the flowers ; such was her dress, plain 
as my own, yet giving one the impression of something 
far more elaborate. But Meta lent charms to her cos- 
tume, she was not dependent upon it. She understood the 
art of dress perfectly — an art to which I do not wonder 
that we women attach importance. Men may laugh at us 
for the time we give to our toilet, the thought we bestow 
on the “fig-leaves” wherewith we clothe ourselves ; yet 
who more than they, appreciate their effect? What man 
will not notice, and comment upon, the rumpled hair, 
soiled collar, or untidy appearance of wife, sister, or 
friend ? v And is it not the duty of every woman to look 

53 


54 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


as well as she 



avail herself to the utmost of her 


natural advantages? Yet her dress should be subservient 
to her, not she to her dress. 

“We are a decided contrast,” she said, smiling. 
“ Your black hair and dress are direct opposites of mine. ’ ’ 

“ Night and morning — darkness and dawn — you are 
making me poetical, Meta.” 

We found a gay party assembled at Mrs. Cameron’s. 
Annie came forward to welcome us. 

“Do you know we have all been waiting for you? 
Sidney, you are president, and should have set us a better 
example. ’ ’ 

“Ah, Miss Elliott,” Mrs. Cameron murmured, as I 
stepped forward to accost her. “ Glad to see you have 
time for these meetings ; I hear you are prospering ? ’ ’ 

“We are all here,” Annie said opportunely, prevent- 
ing my reply to her mother’s insolent speech. “What 
are we to do first? ” 

‘ ‘ Get our pipes in tune ! ’ ’ Kate Strong, a bright, 
lively girl, whispered in my ear. Then, to Annie, 
“ Had we not best see what our friends can do? ” 

Meta was the first to reply. “I’m going to make my- 
self generally useful.” 

For the next few moments everybody talked at once. 
“ Why don’t the president speak, and bring order out of 
this confusion? ” I heard at last. There was a pause. 

4 ‘ Sidney, they have elected you president : they are 
waiting for your orders,” Kate said to me. 

“ I know nothing about it,” I said. 

But Annie came forward. “Will you please suggest 
something, Sidney ? ’ ’ 

I drew back, for I was not prepared for this. Meta 
laughed. “ I ’ll come to your rescue. — Ladies and gen- 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


55 


tlemen,” she began, “as we are about to give a con- 
cert, we must find out what our capabilities are — what 
solos, duets, and trios, to say nothing of choruses, we can 
undertake. Don’t all speak at once.” A merry laugh 
followed this sally. 

Then followed a lively discussion on the merits of vari- 
ous pieces of music. I leaned on the corner of the piano, 
quietly listening, when Meta came up to me. 

“ Sidney, have you seen Will Cameron? If not, there 
he stands, talking to Kate Strong. Look at him, and tell 
me if he isn’t handsome.” 

He well merited her admiration. He was tall and 
well formed, with straight, clear-cut features, a broad 
forehead, and deep-blue .eyes, almost too soft for a man 
— one of those flight-haired, tawny-bearded men over 
whom women go into ecstasies, rand who are always success- 
ful in their endeavors to pleasgi I did not like the mouth, 
which, though shaded by a heavy moustache, was almost 
too flexible ; and the rapidly retreating chin, though the 
soft, wavy beard -was carefully trained to conceal it, told 
of lack of firmness. The brow was decided enough, but 
the lower part of the face told a different story. 

“ Wouldn’t he be worth flirting with? ” she continued, 
in the same low tone. “ I mean to have an introduction 
for you and for myself before the evening is over. Is n’t he 
a contrast to Mr. Perkins ! If he were not such a lump of 
clay — ‘only a clod’ — I’d talk to him, if only to tease 
Annie ! ’ ’ 

“Meta ! how can you talk so ? ” 

“Now hush, Sidney! you like him no better than I 
do ! Listen to him for a minute ; horses, as usual, his 
topic ! Well, he is sure of not getting beyond his depth 
there ! ” 


56 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“You had a long ride, Mr. Perkins,” I heard Kate 
Strong say, as if she was very much bored. 

“ It was not long,” he replied, in his thick tones. “I 
made the sixteen miles in an hour and a half — pretty fast 
driving. ’ •’ 

“ I should think so — for you,” was Kate’s rather sar- 
castic reply, as she glanced at his substantial person. 

He did not see her mischievous look. “I assure you, 
Miss Kate, I timed them. My watch is a first-rate time- 
keeper,” drawing an immense watch, more like a small 
warming-pan than any thing else, from his pocket as he 
spoke ; ‘ ‘ although I scarcely ever look at a watch, unless 
some one asks me the time of day, I used it on this oc- 
casion.” 

“ Why do you carry one, then? ” was her next question. 

“This is not fair, Meta,” I began, but I was interrupted 
by Mrs. Cameron’s asking her to sing. 

She moved forward to comply, and, selecting a piece 
from the collection on the instrument, said to me : 

“Play the accompaniment, will you — it is too hard for 
me.” 

It was Kingsley’s “Three Fishers,” set to a plaintive, 
wailing melody, changing in the chorus to the minor key. 

^For men must work, and women must weep,) 

And the sooner it ’s over, the sooner to sleep — 

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.” 

The air suited her voice; and the low, tremulous tone 
in which she sang the words was very touching. 

“ How can you sing so? ” Kate Strong said to her, as 
the song, to which all had listened in breathless silence, 
ended. “I could almost imagine I heard the weeping 
of the fishermen’s wives, and the moaning of the bar,” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


57 


Meta made no reply. She was watching Will Cameron, 
who, after listening intently to the ballad, was now speak- 
ing to his sister. 

“ I sang that for his benefit,” she whispered, bending 
over me under pretence of arranging the music before, 
me. “ He is asking for an introduction.” 

“ My brother Wilford — Miss Gray, Miss Elliott.” 

Meta’s bow and smile were as unconcerned as though 
she had never given Will Cameron a thought. 

“ What an actress the girl is ! ” I thought, as I still re- 
tained my seat, listening to the gay talk passing between 
the two. 

“ What are you doing with a contralto voice,” he said 
at length. “One might as well expect the notes of the 
thrush from the humming-bird, as those deep tones from 
such a frail creature as yourself.” 

She pouted. “ How very complimentary you are ! ” 

He was earnest in his disclaimer. “ Now, Miss Gray, 
I only meant to say that I would sooner have expected 
the high treble notes from you. Miss Elliott should have 
been the contralto, and you the soprano.” 

“ Unfortunately, I do not sing at all,” I replied. “ I 
would give anything for a voice like Meta’s.” 

“She need not wish for it, Mr. Cameron,” Meta gene- 
rously said. “ She is an accomplished musician herself.” 

He bowed to me. “Miss Elliott’s management of 
that difficult accompaniment has already convinced me of 
that. I wish I dared ask her to assist me at the concert.” 

“Have you a solo?” Meta inquired. “Do, Sidney, 
say yes to him. You know you have my accompaniment 
to play, and we can all practice together.” 

Annie came forward with a paper in her hand. 
“What do you think of our selection?” 


58 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


I glanced over it. Meta had a solo, Will Cameron an- 
other, so had I, only mine of course was instrumental. 
Two or three duets, as many quartets, and a chorus, 
formed the programme ; the whole ending with the “Star 
Spangled Banner.’ ’ It was not a very scientific selection, 
not pieces I would have chosen myself, yet probably bet- 
ter fitted to please the popular ear. 

“I put the last piece in for effect,” Annie said, laugh- 
ing. “And there is room, as you see, for encores.” 

We were to meet once a week to rehearse. And in 
four weeks the concert was to come off. So, this import- 
ant matter settled, the evening went on in various 
amusements. 

Will Cameron devoted himself to Meta and to me. “ I 
am very comfortable here,” he said to his sister, who had 
come in search of him. 

“ But indeed, Will, you must remember you are in your 
own house, and be generally polite.” 

He laughed. “ Who wants to monopolize me now? ” 

“You conceited fellow!” Annie said, as she pulled 
his short, curly hair. •“ These girls are tired of you.” 

“I am at your service under those circumstances,” he 
said, getting up lazily. “ Miss Gray, Miss Elliott, you 
will at least allow me to see you home ? ’ ’ 

“Are you equal to the charge? ” Meta inquired. 

“ I will try to be.” 

“ What possessed you to do that? ” I heard Annie say, 
as the two walked off, “ Will, I thought you had better 
sense.” 

“Is not Miss Gray a great friend of yours?” he 
questioned. 

I lost her reply. But it was just as well ; for as it was, 
the rest of the evening was spoiled for me. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


59 


Mr. Perkins came up, and made an effort to be agree- 
able. But both Meta and I were glad when the party 
broke up. 

We had a pleasant walk home. “The Three Solo- 
ists,” as Will Cameron dubbed our trio, were very 
merry. 

“Iam sorry we had to leave Miss Gray,” I said, as, 
after bidding Meta good-night, we turned into the street 
on which I lived. “ She is good company.” 

“She is a very fascinating girl,” he responded. 
“What a magnificent voice she has! I wish contralto 
and tenor harmonized — I should enjoy singing with her. 
You two are very intimate,” he said, a moment later. 

* ‘ And you seem so different, I can scarcely understand 
it.” 

“Our very difference may have drawn us together. 
Force of contrast, I may say.” 

“ Female friendships ! ” he said, lightly ; “desperate 
for a while, they usually end in — shall I say it — a 
quarrel ? ’ ’ 

I laughed, in spite of myself, at his comical tone. “ It 
is not likely that Meta and I will ever quarrel. We do 
not interfere with each other, and cannot you understand 
women caring for each other ? ’ ’ 

“Sisters quarrel, Miss Elliott, and one would say they 
at least should love one another. ’ ’ 

“I have no sisters, Mr. Cameron,” I replied to this 
remark. “Being an only child, I cannot appreciate the 
force of your last observation.” 

“At least,” he said, as we reached my home, “you 
will allow me the privilege of a friend, in permitting me 
to call; and won’t you exercise your musical skill in my 
behalf?” 

And I was glad to consent. 


CHAPTER X. 


FRIENDLY DISCUSSION. 

I T was yet early when Meta Gray entered our parlor 
the next morning. I had stretched myself, most 
comfortably, on the sofa with a novel, thinking I should 
be able to indulge in its perusal. 

‘ ‘No, you are not going to read,” she “Said, playfully 
taking the book from my hand. “You are to talk to me ; 
and, if you are too lazy to sit up, why you may just lie 
there.” 

She brought an ottoman from the fireside, and sat down 
by me. “ There ! I am comfortable now ! I say, Sidney, 
what dfd you think of last evening ? ’ ’ 

“ I have not given it a thought,” I carelessly replied. 
“But now you ask me, I suppose it was like all such 
evenings.” 

“And I thought it was charming, especially our walk 
home. I quite envied you, my dear ! you had such an 
elegant opportunity for a flirtation.” 

“You know that is not my style, Meta,” I said. “I 
have a thorough horror of anything like coquetry.” 

“But it would be such fun to tease Annie,” she con- 
tinued, not noticing my remark. “ She thinks that bro- 
ther of hers such a wonderful creature, and he is so con- 
ceited, that I would like to prove to both that he is ‘as 
other men are.’ ” 

“ Will Cameron is not conceited,” I began. 


60 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


6l 


Meta burst into a loud laugh. “So my grave Miss 
Elliott did have some opinion on the subject ! ” 

‘ ‘ What are you ladies discussing so earnestly ? ’ ’ said a 
manly voice near us. “I beg pardon for entering so un- 
ceremoniously, but I heard your voices, and, the door 
being open, took the liberty of coming in unannounced. 
Am I intruding ? ’ * 

I felt the blood rush to my face as I rose to assure him 
he was welcome. Meta was silent. 

“ Have I interrupted a feminine conclave? ” he asked, 
as he took the chair I brought forward for him. “Or 
are you discussing ‘ female friendships?’ ” he continued, 
with an arch glance at me. 

“Don’t you believe in them, Mr. Cameron?” ques- 
tioned Meta. 

“Ask your friend, Miss Gray,” he said, with a smile. 
“ If she does, I don’t.” 

“ For shame ! ” was her playful exclamation. “I am 
sure there are as many cases on record of true friendship 
among women as among men.” 

He shook his head. “It is not polite to contradict a 
lady, yet — ” 

“ Mr. Cameron is right there,” I said. “Though his- 
tory gives us such examples of friendship as Orestes and 
Pylades — Achates, whose fidelity has passed into a prov- 
erb — David and Jonathan — where will you find female 
names so united ? ’ ’ 

“ Thank you for coming to my rescue ! I wish I could 
always enlist you on my side, Miss Elliott. Miss Gray, 
do you acknowledge your defeat ? ’ ’ 

“I do not. Your historians are prejudiced.” 

Will Cameron laughed. “You need not look into his- 
6 


62 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


tory alone. What has been your own experience ? have 
you never changed ? ’ ’ 

“I can fight you there with your own weapons, Mr. 
Cameron. Who is it that says, ‘ Men were inconstant 
ever?’ ” 

I laughed. “You have changed your ground, Meta! 
Love has taken the place of friendship.” 

“ Own your defeat gracefully, Miss Gray. Your posi- 
tion is not tenable.” 

“It’s no use arguing against you two,” she said, as I 
thought, a little angrily. “Sidney, don’t you believe in 
my friendship for you? ” 

They both waited for my reply. I hesitated for a mo- 
ment. “I have no reason to doubt it, Meta. Yet, were 
you ever to marry, I should hold but a secondary place 
in your regard.” 

“Let jus talk of something else,” Will Cameron ob- 
served, as a silence of a few moments followed my reply. 
“Human nature is the same, at all times and under all 
circumstances, and why need we tr'ouble ourselves need- 
lessly about mere names?” 

“ 1 What ’s in a name ? * ” Meta quoted. 

“A good deal,” I said. “Names have generally 
meanings and associations. Yours, for instance, has a 
beautiful significance — a pearl, a daisy.” 

* ‘ Margaret — is that your name, Miss Gray ? I thought 
they called you Meta. ’ ’ 

“So they do. But as Margaret was too long for 
common use, I preferred the rather unusual Meta. ’ ’ 

“‘O pure, pale Margaret ! ’ I never knew the meaning 
of the name before, though I have always liked it,” Will 
Cameron said. “‘As pure as a pearl, as modest as a 
daisy’ — that should be the character it implies.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


63 

“ Do you re- 


“It is more than that to me,” I said, 
member Wordsworth’s 4 Portrait’ ? : 

‘ A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature’s daily food; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. 

A perfect woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 

And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel’s light.’ 

I have always thought the original of those perfect lines 
must have been a Margaret. ’ ’ 

Meta looked up, all her good-humor restored. “ I ’ll 
take part of that compliment to myself, Sidney. But 
names are sad misnomers sometimes.” 

She looked the very embodiment of her own name as 
she sat there. And so I interpreted Will Cameron’s ad- 
miring glance at her ere he replied : 

“They are indeed ‘misnomers,’ if you think of their 
meaning. ’ ’ 

“I always do,” I said. “And they are almost always 
misapplied. Brown Lilies (“ Tiger flowers,” Meta put in), 
stately Kates; flippant, pert Elizabeths — are common.” 

“And Martha, ‘careful about many things,’ is gener- 
ally a poor housekeeper,” was Meta’s laughing remark. 

“Your name suits you, Miss Elliott,” Will Cameron 
said ; “but where did you find it ? ” 

“Sidney’s^ cap fits her,” Meta said. “It is stately 
and resolute as herself.” 

“ It was my grandmother’s cap,” I answered. “ I like 
it, though it might as well be given to a man as to a 
woman.” 


6 4 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“1 should never think of anything masculine in con- 
nection with you, Miss Elliott,” was Mr. Cameron’s re- 
ply. “I like those old-fashioned names; ’t is a pity they 
are not more common. But in our discussion, I had 
forgotten my errand. Will you look over this roll of 
music at your leisure, and advise me as to my selection? ” 

“ Cannot you try them now ? ” Meta suggested. 

“ Impossible ! you young ladies have whiled away the 
morning so pleasantly that I had nearly forgotten an en- 
gagement I had at my office. A young lawyer must be 
punctual.” 

He bowed as he spoke, and left us. 

“You came out in a new character to-day, Sidney,” 
Meta said, as we were left alone. “Really, you were 
quite brilliant ; I had no idea my sober moth could so 
shine.” 

“ Did I talk too much, Meta? ” I asked, for I did not 
like her tone. 

“You played the hostess to perfection! And I must 
follow Mr. Cameron’s example, and be gone.” 

I pressed her to remain and share our dinner, but she 
would not consent. 

So I took up the roll of music to examine its contents. 
It contained three songs: “The Serenade,” from Don 
Pasquale; “ The Wild Flowers,” from Lucia; and Mrs. 
Hemans’ “ Captive Knight. ’ ’ I tried them over, and laid 
the last one aside. As I did so, I could not help won- 
dering what Mrs. Cameron and Annie would have said 
had they known how their son and brother had passed 
his morning, or the probability that he would spend 
several hours with me every week. The concert, and 
the preparations for it, would necessarily throw us much 
together. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


65 


I spent that afternoon at my piano. I was more anx- 
ious about the accompaniments I had to play than about 
m)j own piece. That depended wholly upon myself. I 
had selected for my solo an arrangement of our national 
airs ; a piece which, while it displayed the full powers of 
the instrument, was well fitted for the concert-room. In 
this choice, however, I was guided by Annie Cameron’s 
programme. My own taste would have suggested some- 
thing totally different. 

“ I wish it was all over ! ” I said to myself as, late in 
the evening, I closed the piano. “It seems to me that 
no good will come from it.” 

Leaving the house, I walked into the garden. The full 
moon was just rising, the sky was unclouded, the air was 
heavy with' the fragrance of flowers, and, walking up and 
down the gravel paths, I must have spent hours in revery, 
till recalled by my mothers voice: “Sidney, child, 
come in ! you will catch your death of cold.” 

6 * 


r 

/ 


/ 


CHAPTER XI 


GLIMPSES OF CHARACTER. 


HE weeks before the concert passed rapidly by. 



1 They were very pleasant weeks to me. It was the 
first time I had ever been thrown at all into society, and 
I thoroughly enjoyed it. 

Will Cameron was constantly at our house. He di- 
vided his attentions pretty equally between Meta and my- 
self. They would come in the early morning to practice, 
and, that business over, we would sit together, while he 
read to us. He escorted us to and from the rehearsals, 
though, when there, he was all devotion to Meta. 

She was very affectionate to me in those days. 

“It’s a pity I ’m not a man, Meta,” I said to her one 
day. 

“Why?” she asked. 

“ Because I believe you would fascinate me into mar- 
rying you.” 

“ No, you would not, Sidney, for I would not have you. 
No,” she went on, after a pause; “I like you, as a 
woman, but I should not if you were a man. As it is, 
you don’t interfere with me, you don’t cross me ; our lines 
are totally different, and we don’t clash. So I like you.” 

“ What style would you like? ” I asked, playfully. 

“Something I can control, something I can so guide 
that he will have no will save mine. But if any one tried 
to control me — ” 

“ What would you do ? ” 


66 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


6 : 


She raised her head from my knee, where it had been 
lying. Pushing her hair from her face, she looked at 
me. I shall never forget the expression of her eyes. 
Clear, and hard as steel, the pupils dilated, I thought at 
once of Coleridge’s 

“ Each shrank up to a serpent’s eye, 

And with more of malice, and more of dread, 

At Christabel she looked askance.” 

If ever there was a living incarnation of Geraldine, she 
stood before me. 

Did you ever, at one glance, seem to read a character 
through and through? — to see the true soul animating the 
person, looking out through its clay prison? — to see, 
’neath the fair outside, all the lurking horror within? So 
I saw Meta Gray ; so, in that one glance, I read her, and 
from that moment I doubted her. 

“ What would I do? ” she repeated, as I sat gazing at 
her. “ What would I do? I would do anything — short 
of murder ! ” I cannot describe her tone as she said these 
words. They were hissed out, beneath her breath. “I 
believe I have shocked you, Sidney,” she said, a moment 
later, in her own musical tones. “ Don’t stare at me so. 
Are you sick ? ’ ’ 

I could have declared I was dreaming. The wondrous 
eyes, in all their strange beauty, looked into mine — the 
silvery tones rang in my ears. 

“No, Meta, I am well,” I said, rousing myself with 
an effort. “ What were we talking about? ” 

Her merry laugh rang through the room. “You will 
forget your own identity next, Sidney. I verily believe 
you are in love.” 

“ Not if I know myself. My future lord and master 
must be something far superior to myself. ’ ’ 


68 


SIDNEY -ELLIOTT. 


“ Eor instance ?” 

‘fA man I can look up to, and respect — a man who 
can hold his own in the world — who, strong and fearless, 
can meet the storms of life — who can indeed govern his 
household — on whose judgment I. can rely, submitting to 
his, my own — in all things my master! Giving to me, 
as I to him, all true love, all full confidence. I trust- 
ing in him, as he in me. To such a man I could give all 
true service, all wifely duty ; working with him, helping 
him, passing hand in hand through life, ‘each the other 
aiding!’ And when I find him” — I paused, a little 
ashamed of my own eloquence. 

Meta smiled. “There are no Chevalier Bayards in 
these days. ‘You should have lived in the times of chi- 
valry. ’ ’ 

“I am as likely to find my ‘fearless and blameless’ 
knight now as I should have been in those days. Do 
you remember what Will Cameron said to us the other 
day, that ‘human nature is the same, under all circum- 
stances ’ ? ” 

“So you make Will Cameron your oracle?” 

“No,” I said calmly, though I felt hurt at her tone. 
We all know how hard it is to find no sympathy where 
we most expect it. “No,” I said, “I do not; I only 
used his words because they expressed my own idea.” 

“ He would feel complimented ! ” 

“ What is the matter with you, Meta? 'I do nof recog- 
nize you to-day.” 

“Don’t mind me, Sidney! I am not myself this morn- 
ing. Your calm, quiet nature cannot appreciate or un- 
derstand the restlessness of mine. ’ ’ 

She was walking up and down the room as she spoke. 
Suddenly, she paused before me. “What a contrast you. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


69 

and I make! You, calm, quiet, true woman, as you are; 
and I, light, unstable, and thoughtless! Yet, of the two, 
life’s sunshine falls to me — to you, its shadows. I, less 
deserving, gain the admiration of men, and they pass you 
by. /ft is a strange world, Sidney: can you explain it?” 

I was thankful when she left me. If I had wondered 
over Meta’s character before, I was now more puzzled 
than ever. I had seen her under an entirely new aspect 
to-day — well for me had it been our last meeting! 

Will Cameron spent that evening with me. I have 
said those were happy weeks — how much of their happi- 
ness I owed to him I did not stop to think. My acquaint- 
ance with him had opened a new world to me — that of 
modern literature. My father had limited my reading 
almost wholly to the older writers, and, consequently, 
the poets of the present day were unfamiliar to me. 

Coming home late, the evening before, from our last 
rehearsal, we had paused a moment to watch the rising 
of the Pleiades. 

“ They rose as calmly in the days of Job,” I had said. 
“ Do you remember where he speaks of their ‘sweet in- 
fluences ’ ? ” 

“ They have always been favorites among the poets : 

‘ Many a night, from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, 

Did I look on great Orion, sloping slowly to the west. 

‘ Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro’ the mellow shade, 

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.’ ” 

“What beautiful lines!” I exclaimed. “Whose are 
they?” 

“ Did you never read ‘ Locksley Hall ’ ? No? Then 
I will bring it, and read it to you to-morrow evening.” 

That was my first introduction to Tennyson. Music and 


SIDNEY ELLIO T T. 


7 o 

poetry owe half their charm to companionship — and 
how soon people learn to know each other through their 
medium ! Will Cameron was a fine reader, and his well- 
modulated voice gave new charms to the verse he read. 
He truly lent 

“ To the rhyme of the poet 
The beauty of ‘ his ’ voice.” 

He threw the book aside at last. “ I will leave it with 
you, Miss Sidney. Tennyson will bear reading alone.” 

I took up the volume and turned the leaves carelessly. 
It opened at that beautiful song in the “ Princess ” : 

“ Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean ; ” 

those lines in which such a deep sadness breathes, one 
might almost think them written by the shrouded form of 
some beloved one ; the very utterance of the sorrowing 
heart — those lines which, all rhymeless though they be, 
linger in the memory from their very rhythm — those lines 
which, had Tennyson never written anything else, would 
have stamped him at once, crowned him at once a true 
poet. 

‘ 1 What have you found ? ’ ’ 

I pointed silently to the poem. 

“Those beautiful lines! Reading them, we pardon 
Tennyson many faults. I wonder if they have ever been 
set to music. I should like to hear Meta Gray sing them. ’ ’ 

“ She would do it well,” I said. 

“ I wish she had been here this evening.” 

Now I did not at all coincide in this desire. My morn- 
ing’s interview with her had upset my usually steady 
nerves, and I wanted to retain all the composure I could 
for the next evening — the night of the concert. He 
went on: 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


7 1 


“I want to hear her sing again to-night. After our 
reading, her beautiful voice would be a fitting end to the 
evening. Do you remember ‘The Three Fishers,’ the 
night we first met? I would give anything to hear it 
again.” 

“If you will not be too impatient,” I said, lightly, “you 
can hear it to-morrow evening. It is Meta’s solo at the 
concert.” 

“You play the accompaniment, I believe?” I as- 
sented. 

“ Perfect music to noble words ! Miss Gray shows her 
usual good taste.” 

He rose to leave me. “I hope, Miss Sidney, this is 
not our last evening with the poets ; though I can no 
longer plead the same excuse for coming — practicing for 
the concert.” 

“ Is an excuse necessary? ” I asked, with a smile. “I 
am always glad to see my friends.” . 

“Then I may come under that category?” he said, 
gayly. “ Thank you, Miss Sidney ; we shall meet, then, 
at the concert ; and after that ? ’ ’ 

“ It will depend on yourself,” I said. 

“ I don’t wonder Meta said I had come out in a new 
character,” I thought, after he left me. “I have 
known Will Cameron four weeks, and I treat him like an 
old friend. Well, it will end in a few days, and then I 
must go back to my old routine once more — return to 
my music-lessons again.” 

<And, for the first time in my life, I envied Meta Gray. 

I did not sleep very soundly that night. I felt uneasy 
and worried about the concert, and my interview with 
Meta still haunted me. When I did sleep, it was only to 
dream. I was at the hall, playing my solo. Suddenly 


72 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


the piano fell towards me; then, ere it touched me, it 
changed into a huge spider, which seized me, spite of all 
my struggles to escape ; and began to imprison me in a 
net, composed, most unaccountably, of Meta’s gleaming 
tresses. 

I awoke, unrefreshed. I looked at myself in the glass. 
I was pale and haggard, with dark circles around my 
eyes, and my hands trembled so that I could scarcely ar- 
range my hair. I was nervous and excited. 

This would never do. Had I been able, I would have 
declined taking part in the concert ; but it was too late 
to supply my place. All the arrangements were com- 
pleted, and no alterations could now be made. It would, 
probably, in a pecuniary point of view, be a grand suc- 
cess. The largest hall in the city had been offered us 
gratuitously, in consideration of the object of our en- 
deavors. Mrs. Cameron had lent her piano, a magnifi- 
cent instrument, and every ticket was sold. We had dec- 
orated our platform with wreaths and flowers, were per- 
fect in all our pieces, and.everything had gone on harmo- 
niously. Only one thing had seemed odd to me. Will 
Cameron, at every rehearsal, had insisted on playing his 
own accompaniment, laughingly declining the offers of 
the girls to assist him. What made me think of this I 
could not tell. The truth was, I had a violent attack of 
stage-fright. I could only hope it would be over by 
night. 

“ What shall I do with myself? ” I thought. “A long 
walk — that will be the very thing.” , 

So, after my morning duties were performed, I went 
out into my garden, plucking here a flower, there a leaf, 
till I had a magnificent bouquet in my hands, which I 
intended to take to Mrs. Merton. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


73 


At her house I found Kate Strong and Annie Cameron. 
They were in high spirits, and soon made me feel ashamed 
of my nervousness. 

They were discussing their dress for the evening 

“We shall all wear white,” Annie said.. “Sidney, 
will you not lay aside your mourning for the occasion ? 
A plain white dress — you need not hesitate about wearing 
that.” 

“I should not feel like myself,” I replied. “I am 
nervous enough as it is, and a change of my accustomed 
dress would only the more discompose me. ’ ’ 

“You will feel less strange if you wear our uniform, 
Sidney,” Kate said, kindly ; “ but if it be painful to you, 
we will not press you. It is not a matter of much im- 
portance. ’ ’ 

“I will think about it,” I said; “and if you would 
like it, I can supply each of you with a bouquet this 
evening.” 

They were lavish in their thanks. 

“Then,” I went on, “I must go. If I am to be 
your florist for the occasion, I must not lose any more 
time.” 

“Look your best to-night, Sidney,” Mrs. Merton said 
to me, as I bade her adieu. “ Who knows but that you 
may make your fortune this evening.” 

I arranged my promised floral tributes ; then, taking 
up the volume of Tennyson, I forgot myself over the 
“ Idyls of the King.” The afternoon passed away unno- 
ticed. 

“ Sidney, you have barely time to dress,” my mother’s 
low voice broke in upon my reading. “ It is six o’clock. ’ ’ 

“ Six o’clock, and we meet at seven ! Oh, mother ! ” 

I was myself again. The morning’s walk, the enchant- 
7 


74 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


ment of poetry, my quiet afternoon, had restored my 
self-command. It was just as well now that my time was 
limited. I would not have leisure to think of myself 
again. 

44 1 may as well be obliging,” I thought, as, after has- 
tily arranging my masses of hair, whose braids nearly 
covered my head, I took, from its long rest in the ward- 
robe, a white dress, and arrayed myself in the unaccus- 
tomed attire. 


CHAPTER XII. 


# 


THE NIGHT OF THE CONCERT. 

S IDNEY, how well you look! ” Meta exclaimed, as I 
entered the ladies’ dressing-room at the hall. 
“Come and look at yourself.” 

She pulled me, playfully, before the glass. “Non- 
sense, Meta; don’t flatter my vanity.” 

But I caught a glimpse of myself. Excitement and 
haste had given my usually pale cheeks a brilliant color, 
my eyes were bright, and I felt a pardonable pleasure in 
feeling I did not look amiss in the white-robed crowd of 
fair girls around me. 

“Do you know you are just in time, Sidney?” Annie 
Cameron asked, as she pointed to the clock. It was half- 
past seven. “You have just time to smooth your ‘ ruffled 
plumes.’ I wonder what the gentlemen are doing? We 
meet them in ten minutes.” 

A tap at the door answered this question. “Are you 
girls ready?” somebody asked. “Because, if you are, 
you had best come down. The hall is crowded, and it is 
nearly eight o’clock.” 

There were a few minutes of bustle and confusion*, a 
flutter of white robes down the narrow staircase, and our 
party was assembled in the waiting-room. A moment 
later, and the concert had begun. 

I do not intend to enter into a detailed account of it 
— only those parts in which I was personally interested. 

75 


* 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


76 

Meta’s was the first solo. Will Cameron stepped for- 
ward to lead her out. 

“You look like the very spirit of song itself to-night,” 
I heard him say in a low tone, as they passed me. 

Like all the rest, her dress was white, but she had 
looped it, here and there, with coral sprays and long, 
trailing sea-weeds. The same mixture of green and scar- 
let was in her hair, and the piece of music she held was 
tied with ribbons of the same hues. 

One of the other gentlemen led me to the piano, and 
then we had the stage to ourselves. 

There is rather a long prelude to the “Three Fish- 
ers.” And, while the ivory keys responded to the touch 
of my fingers — while, almost mechanically, I struck the 
heavy chords which open it, passing into a long trill 
for the treble, while the bass carries the air, then, chang- 
ing back to the heavier chords, they modulate into the 
low, trembling arpeggios which form the accompaniment 
— I looked at Meta. 

She stood, to all appearance, unconscious of the crowd 
before her. The pure color on her cheek never for one 
moment varied ; her eyes were bent on the floor ; her 
white, floating draperies fell gracefully around her; calm, 
quiet, as she stood there, I did not wonder at Will Came- 
ron’s low-murmured question to some one near him : 

* ‘ Did you ever see anything more perfect ? ’ ’ 

“ 4 A perfect form in perfect rest ! ’” was the reply. 

She heard, as well as myself, for the rose-hue on her 
cheek deepened, the full, soft, scarlet lips curved slightly 
with a smile. Then the ballad began. It was an ar- 
rangement by Mr. Powers. 

I cannot describe Meta’s singing of it. The large au- 
dience listened, as I did, spell-bound, to the enchanting 


v 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


77 

notes which filled the hall. Beauty and Music combined 
their spell. 

Through the weird, plaintive notes, through the wailing 
minor refrain of each verse, the audience followed her. 
Perfect stillness reigned through the vast assemblage, 
fearful of losing one tone. Even I, who so well knew 
her powers, was amazed. 

The song was over — and for a moment a breathless 
silence filled the hall. Meta glided from the stage, leav- 
ing me seated at the piano. Then the plaudits burst forth 
loudly. The audience were not satisfied — they must hear 
the singer again. 

She came forward in reply, looking, as I thought, with 
her fantastic ornaments, like some sea-nymph. She came 
to my side for a moment, her eyes flashing, her cheeks 
glowing. 

“I cannot sing that song again, Sidney. How will 
this do? ” It was Schubert’s “ Earl King.” 

“ It will not do at all,” I said, in the same subdued 
tones. ‘ ‘ Sing this instead.” I placed Mrs. Hemans’ 
“Treasures of the Deep” on the rack. 

“ That sober thing? ” 

“ Don’t spoil the effect, Meta. This is a fitting sequel 
to your first song.” 

“ Have your own way then.” 

There was no time for more ; I struck the first notes 
of the song, and the audience were satisfied. 

She came to me later, as I sat by the open window in 
the waiting-room. 

“ Sidney, did I play my part well ? ” 

“Why do you ask me?” I replied. “ Were not the 
loud applause you received, the low whispers which just 
rtow brought the color to your cheek, sufficient ? ’ ’ 

7 * 


78 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 ‘ 1 want your opinion, Sidney. I had but one end in 
view to-night, and I have attained it. What do you sup- 
pose I care for th%t great monster, the public ? Not one 
iota. I sang with but one thought — to fascinate Will 
Cameron — and I have done it.” 

I made no reply. 

“You are a strange girl, Sidney Elliott. Calm and 
cool as you sit here, the calm is all external ; there is a 
volcano under the ice. I do not know why I seek you. 
I never sought woman’s friendship before. I gain nothing 
from my own sex ; man gives me the tribute of his heart. 
I care nothing for the society of women — ’tis so tame; 
and men are little better — poor, weak creatures ! A 
smile, a little flattery, and the strongest of them are at our 
feet.” 

“ Meta, have you no feeling? ” 

“ ‘ All the world ’s a stage, 

And all the men and women — merely players.’ 

Am I quoting correctly ? ” 

“ You are a thorough actress, Meta.” 

She laughed. “Shall I show you the power of my 
eyes, Sidney ? People have told me they are magnetic. 
Let me put them to the test.” 

She looked, as she spoke, at Will Cameron. He was 
standing at the other side of the room, talking to Kate 
Strong ; and, strange to say, he obeyed the silent sum- 
mons. 

I turned from them to look out of the window. Bright 
moonlight flooded the earth ; not a skigle cloud was vis- 
ible ; and the stars were pale before the pure lustre of the 
full moon. What cared they, in their serene Eternity, for 
the thoughts and passions of a few miserable human 
hearts ? 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 79 

Annie Cameron’s voice interrupted the conversation by 
my side. 

* ‘ Will, have you forgotten your solo? It is the next 
piece on the programme.” 

‘ ‘ I had forgotten, Annie. Miss Elliott, are you ready ? ’ * 

“ Sidney, do you play the accompaniment? ” his sister 
asked. “ Will, I thought you — ” 

“Would inflict my own playing on our hearers? Not 
I, puss.” 

“But Sidney is not prepared.” 

“I beg your pardon, Annie,” I coolly replied; “the 
piece in question has been thoroughly studied.” 

He tobk my hand to lead me forward. Meta whis- 
pered in my ear : “I can trust him with you , Sidney. ’ ’ 

“ Your hand is as cold as ice,” my escort said, as we 
passed on to the stage. “ Are you not well ? ” 

“ Well ! ” yes ; but I was sick at heart. I gave a light, 
flippant answer : “You forget my triumph is yet to come, 
Mr. Cameron. I will enlist your applause for my solo.” 

I was not sorry when * 1 The Captive Knight ’ ’ was over. 
It was well sung, for both Mr. Cameron and myself were 
perfect in our parts ; but I felt all the time that Meta’s 
and Annie’s eyes were upon us. 

“ This is kind ! ” I heard him say, as Meta offered her 
congratulations. “But,” in a lower voice, “I am not 
like that poor knight — my ‘dream of hope and joy’ is 
yet to come. ’ ’ 

My piece came next. I need scarcely say I did my 
best. The audience responded, as they always do, to the 
national airs. 

“ You will have to go out again, Sidney,” Kate said to 
me. Mr. Perkins stepped forward: “Permit me, Miss 
Elliott. ’ ’ I had no choice in the matter. 


8o 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


My reply to the encore was “Home, sweet home.” 
And, in a very few minutes more, the concert was at an 
end. 

Mr. Merton came in search of me. Will Cameron was 
with Meta. 

“You have done well to-night, Sidney. You and Meta 
have certainly been the best performers of the evening.” 

I received many congratulations as I passed by, on Mr. 
Merton’s arm. Mrs. Cameron stopped me: “You ex- 
celled yourself to-night, Miss Elliott. You will find this 
a first-rate advertisement. And our sweet Meta, too ! ” 

“Our sweet Meta” laughed. “We have earned our 
organ, Mrs. Cameron.” 

“And Miss Elliott must preside at it ! My dear,” to 
me, “ you look tired. I would advise you to go home as 
speedily as possible.” 

“ She might have given you a seat in her carriage,” 
Mr. Merton said, as we walked on. “Sidney, she*is 
manoeuvring to make a match between her son and 
Meta.” 

“Well V” 

“ No, it is not well,” he said. “ He has not character 
or decision enough to make Meta a good husband.” 

“ I am glad the concert is over ! ” I said, abruptly. 

Mr. Merton laughed. “You are tired and excited to- 
night. Why, to-morrow you will not know what to do 
with yourself.” 

“My music-lessons recommence in ten days. Mrs. 
Cameron was kind enough to remind me of them.” 

“Is that what is troubling you, Sidney? You had 
better get rid of your excessive sensitiveness. Mrs. Cam- 
eron meant no harm, child. We get slights enough in 
this world, without looking out for those which are not 
intended. I always thought you a sensible girl.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


8l 


I made no reply. 

“ Now Sidney, have I too vexed you? Don’t you know 
I consider myself privileged to scold you, when you de- 
serve it? My dear girl — I am one of your oldest friends 
— I have seen more of life than you have — let me ask you, 
if trifles disturb you thus, how will you bear the -serious 
troubles of life? ” 

“Dear Mr. Merton ! as if I could be angry with you ! 
But here is our house ; and a good night’s rest will prob- 
ably settle me down again, and cure this raging head- 
ache, which must be accountable for all my fancies this 
evening. Good night, and many thanks for your escort.” 

My mother was sitting up for me. I recounted the 
events of the evening as briefly as . possible, and then 
sought my room. I expected to pass a restless night, but 
no — far from it. I fell asleep as soon as my head 
touched my pillow, and did not awaken until the sun was 
near the meridian the following morning. 

“I would not call you, Sidney,” my mother said, in 
reply to my excuses for my late rising. “You looked so 
worn out last night that I thought sleep the best thing for 
you ; and I was right, for you are looking quite yourself 
this morning. But you have missed Mr. Cameron — he 
seemed disappointed at not seeing you. ’ ’ 

“Mother,” I said, after a moment’s pause, “I cannot 
stay in-doors this morning ; will you come out with me ? 
I have something to show you.” 

I went out into my garden, where I busied myself for 
a while forming a wreath of white flowers. With this in 
my hand, I returned to the house, meeting my mother 
ready for our walk. I caught up my shawl and hat, and, 
throwing them carelessly on, we left the house together. 

It was a calm September day — a day of mixed sun 


82 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


and shadow — a day when the air was still, and the clouds 
were like great white masses in the heavens. To-morrow, 
the rain might come, the white, floating clouds might 
form one gray mass, covering the sky, and hiding the 
blessed sunshine ; but it would be fair to-day. 

We walked along, through the less frequented streets. 
In one of these, not very far from our own home, Will 
Cameron and Meta passed us. They were out driving. 
He bowed, and she waved her handkerchief to me as they 
rapidly passed. 

“They will make a handsome couple,” my mother 
said v as she looked after the two, so young and gay, 
looking so well fitted for each other. “I hear they are 
engaged.” 

“ I should not be surprised,” I said. 

We were neither of us in a very talkative mood that 
morning. My mother was one of those women who pos- 
sess the rare gift of silence. She never spoke for the 
mere sake of hearing herself talk. If she could not 
speak kindly of any one, she said nothing. Scandal 
never passed her lips. She had strong faith in the old 
German proverb: “Speech is of silver, silence of gold.” 

So we walked along, silently, till we came to our des- 
tination, the cemetery. Situated on the outskirts of the 
city, you heard nothing there of the noise and bustle of 
the streets. It was kept in perfect order and neatness, a 
fit resting-place for the silent sleepers who lay there. 

The day, I have said, was a calm, still one — so still, 
in this city of the dead — “God’s Acre,” as the imagina- 
tive Germans call it — that only the low sounds of nature 
were heard. The soft rustle of the falling leaves; the twit- 
ter of the sparrow, the bird which lingers with us through 
the year ; the light step of the rabbit, as, with long ears 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


83 

laid back, and white, short tail erect, he bounded over 
the gravel paths ; the low, soft ‘ ‘ sough * of the light 
September wind in the branches of the evergreen cedars, 
standing here and there in pyramids of verdure, “was 
all the sound we heard.” 

Not a word passed between us as we threaded the wind- 
ing paths. At last we both stopped. 

It was before a plain, simple monument — only a square 
base of granite, on which stood a column, itself un- 
adorned — severely simple. But it did not rise, in all its 
fair proportions, to its full height. It was broken ab- 
ruptly off, incomplete — unfinished, as it were, like the 
noble life it was placed to commemorate. 

JOHN ELLIOTT. 

Born March ii, 18-. 

Died November 15, 18-. 

“ He rests from his labors .” 


Such was the brief inscription upon the column, such 
the only epitaph over my father’s grave. 

It was the first time we had ever been there together. 
Not that either of us had neglected the spot; but we 
had always gone alone. The monument had only been 
completed the day before. It was my own design. I 
laid the wreath I carried on the base. 

“Mother,” I said, “were it not wrong, I could almost 
wish I too slept here.” 

“You are too young to wish for that peaceful rest, 
which comes in its own good time. Take up your burden 
boldly, Sidney ; do not let it crush you. * ’ 

“ My life is not a hard one, mother dear. Only I can- 


8 4 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


not see why to some all the brightness falls ; to others, all 
the shadow. ’ ’ 

“We make or mar our own lives, my child. Had he 
but lived — ” Her voice failed. 

“Mother, do you think I would call him back — call 
him from his rest ? Rest ! when he knows it in all its 
full perfection — when all the great mysteries of Life and 
Eternity are solved to him ! ’ ’ 

“Let us go home,” I said, after a few minutes. “I 
am better now. After all, what matters sun or shadow, 
when we know that, in a few brief years, it will all be 
over ? ” 

We went home, both feeling better for our pilgrimage ; 
for such it was. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE TABLEAU PARTY. 

I F I had felt any doubt respecting the nature of my 
feelings towards Will Cameron previous to the con- 
cert, that evening awoke me to a full comprehension 
of their nature ; and I was thoroughly provoked with 
myself. He had given me no reason to suppose he cared 
for me ; every action, on the contrary, indicated his pre- 
ference for Meta. And because he was the first who had 
ever shown me any attention, the first gentleman with 
whom I had ever been on intimate terms, I had been 
foolish enough to give him my heart. 

Fortunately, no one, not even my mother, suspected the 
state of affairs. I was too proud to show what I felt, and 
I quietly determined that this, my first fancy, should per- 
ish as it had arisen, unseen and unsuspected. It would, 
I thought, be an easy task. I was almost sure, from 
Meta’s words to me, that they were engaged, and, as I 
did not suppose that in future I should see much of the 
gentleman, I imagined it would be easy enough to forget 
I had ever considered him as anything save a friend. 

But I was mistaken in everything. Every morning 
brought Will Cameron to the house. If he spent his 
evenings with Meta — of which she never failed to inform 
me — he was sure to pass his mornings with me. Music, 
books — he had always some valid excuse for his appear- 
ance ; and those mornings .passed so pleasantly, I had not 
8 8s 


86 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


the strength to put an end to them. The last day of Sep- 
tember came. 

“This is the last of our pleasant mornings, Mr. Cam- 
eron,” I said, as, on rising to take leave, he spoke of 
some book he would bring me on the morrow. “I am 
sorry they are over.” 

“ Do you intend to banish me? ” he asked. 

“I cannot help myself. To-morrow is the first of Oc- 
tober. ’ ’ 

“ What of that ? Do you intend to give up your friends 
because 

* The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year,* 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere ; * 

or do you intend entering a convent?” 

“Neither,” I said, imitating his tone; “but my brief 
holiday is over. ’ 1 

“You surely are not a school-girl still? There is not 
much of what Byron calls ‘bread and butter’ about you.” 
He was evidently puzzled. 

“Is it possible you did not know? My music-lessons 
begin to-morrow.” 

“Who is your teacher?” he asked. “Certainly he 
does not fill up all your time. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Did you not know I supported myself by teaching 
music? ” I replied. “It is no secret. How is it that you 
never knew it before ? ’ ’ 

“ It is news to me, I assure you. Dr. Elliott was gen- 
erally considered wealthy.” 

“So we were at one time. But our circumstances 
have changed since those days.” 

“ And you are dependent on your own exertions? ” 

“I am very /^dependent,” I said, with a smile; 
“ more so I could not possibly be.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


*7 


“You are very proud, as I well know.” 

“And that very pride helps me on. I earn my own 
living, and owe no one anything, not even thanks, for it. ’ ’ 

“You should have been a man, Miss Sidney. I wish 
I had one half of your ambition. ’ ’ 

“I cannot understand anyone’s being without it,” I 
said, in reply. 

He laughed. “I shall immediately proceed to culti- 
vate that quality, that ‘pardonable vice of great minds,’ 
as some one calls it ; and, as a preliminary step, I shall 
settle myself quietly down in my office, beginning work, 
like you, to-morrow. What say you, Miss Sidney? ” 

“Don’t ask me,” I said gayly. “Would not Meta’s 
advice suit you better than any I could give ? ’ ’ 

“ It would be very different from yours.” He paused, 
evidently unwilling to speak of her. “What do you 
think of our new choir ? ’ ’ 

We had secured our organ, at which I had been re- 
quested to preside. The choir was composed of Annie, 
Kate, Meta, and Mr. Cameron — another tenor and two 
basses filled the number. 

“We have first-rate materials,” I said. “I hope they 
will work well together.” 

“ It will be a wonder if they do. Choirs are proverb- 
ially inharmonious.” 

“You and Meta will probably prove the contrary,” I 
said. 

“At any rate, I shall not quarrel with you,” he said, 
bidding me good-bye. 

I was soon busy enough with my pupils. It was very 
hard, at first, to settle down into the dull routine, after the 
rush of the last few weeks. Certainly pleasant company 
was far more agreeable than teaching. 


88 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


The winter came at last. It was very gay, unusually 
so. But I did not participate in the gayety. I was kept 
well informed, however, of all the occurrences of the 
season, by Kate and Meta. I learned to know Kate 
Strong well in those days, and she and I were soon 
friends — a friendship which, I trust, will last our lives 
through. 

So the days passed by till New-Year’s Eve. Quiet, 
monotonous days, with nothing to mark them, yet passing 
rapidly, as s*ich daysVill; their only break being Will 
Cameron’s visits, changed now to the evening. 

Meta had invited some of us to spend that evening with 
her. And I resolved to go — Meta would take no denial ; 
and I, imagining that her engagement was to be announced, 
determined to be present. 

Mrs. Merton’s parlors were comfortably filled when I 
got there. The girls were discussing the best means of 
passing their time. No one seemed in the mood for 
dancing, charades were voted a bore, and at last some 
one suggested tableaux. 

“ The very thing ! ” Meta declared. 

So, good-natured Mrs. Merton was called upon to 
search her stores, and provide costumes for the merry party. 
The company was banished to the front parlor, the gas 
turned low, and the amusements began. 

Behind the scenes is generally the most amusing part 
of such an entertainment. And this proved no exception 
to the rule. I had declined taking part in the tableaux, 
but I was called upon to assist in the costuming. 

We had ample material to work upon. Mrs. Merton 
brought down old dresses, worn in days of yore by her 
grandmother, plumes, flowers, gay scarfs, and our im- 
promptu tableaux were a decided success. We had the 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


89 


usual list : “ Taking the Veil ” — “ Red Riding-Hood ” 
— “ Cinderella ” — “A Country Courtship,” in which 
Lewis Perkins took the part of the sheepish lover ; and 
then somebody suggested “ Rebecca and Rowena.” 

il Sidney and Meta will be the very ones,” Kate 
Strong suggested. “ Now, Sidney, you need not object; 
you must act. ’ * 

And I consented. Meta, in her blue draperies; a long 
white veil, half concealing, half revealing her features, 
her beautiful hair falling in natural curls below her waist, 
was a perfect representative of the fair Saxon. I knelt 
at her feet, in scarlet robes ; my long, black hair braided 
in two heavy plaits, my head covered with a turban has- 
tily twisted out of an Indian scarf, offering the now de- 
spised jewels of the unhappy Rebecca. 

There was a low murmur of approbation as the doors 
were opened, revealing the tableau. 

The last on the list was “The Execution of Mary 
Stuart.” I had hastily thrown aside my Rebecca cos- 
tume, and, winding the heavy braids around my head, 
hurried to the front parlor to see it. Meta knelt, in flow- 
ing robes of black, her hair loosened, her eyes raised, 
her hands clasped, by the block, near which stood the 
masked headsman. Two weeping maids of honor, two 
gayly clad cavaliers, formed the accessory features of a 
scene which was more like a painting than a hastily got- 
ten-up tableau. 

“It is not as good as your Rebecca,” Will Cameron 
whispered to me. “Sidney, I am going home with you 
to-night. I have something to say to you. ’ ’ 

He was Meta’s devoted cavalier all the rest of the even- 
ing. I was not particularly anxious for the walk home. 
I expected to be called upon to offer my congratulations, 
8 * 


9 o 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


and I determined to do it with as good a grace as pos- 
sible. 

We were both of us very silent for the first part of our 
walk. A few commonplace sentences passed between 
us, and then we relapsed into silence. 

We were nearly home when he spoke to me. “ I told 
you I had something to say to you ; have you no curiosity 
to learn what it is?” He slackened his pace as he 
spoke. 

“I am not very curious, Mr. Cameron.” 

“ This is the first morning of the New Year,” he began ; 
“and I feel disposed, with its commencement, to begin a 
new life. I am tired of doing nothing — of wasting my 
time. * ’ 

“ Growing ambitious ? ” I asked. 

“I want you, Sidney,” he said, hurriedly. “I want 
you to help me, to urge me on. In a word, Sidney, I 
love you — will you not give yourself to me?” 

It was the first time that I had ever thought of the pos- 
sibility of his caring for me. I could not answer him. 

“ Have you nothing to say to me?” he presently asked. 

4 ‘ Meta ! ” I managed to say, in a questioning tone. 

“Meta! ” he echoed. “What has she to do with this 
matter ? ’ * 

“Are you not engaged to her?” I asked, more boldly, 
for I had found my powers of speech once more. “Mr. 
Cameron, this is something I never expected.” 

“ I am as free as yourself, Sidney, ’ ’ he said, seriously. 
“That I have been very attentive to Meta Gray, I do not 
deny. But, knowing you, dear, how could you think I 
would give a thought to her ? Can you not trust yourself 
to me, Sidney?” 

We were standing on the porch as he spoke these last 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 91 

words. My reply was to lay my hand in his, while the 
low-murmured “I can trust you” passed my lips. 

“You shall never regret it,” he said, as he clasped my 
hand. “I will see you to-morrow, my darling. For to- 
night, let this rest between us alone. Good-night, Sidney, 
my Sidney.” 

His arm was around me ; he drew me close, closer to 
him, till my head rested on his shoulder; and, for the 
first time in my life, a lover’s kiss was pressed upon my 
lips. 


CHAPTER XIV. 
new-year’s day. 

M Y mother handed me a letter to read across the 
breakfast-table the next morning. It was from an 
old student of my father’s. He was desirous of settling 
in Fairfield, and wrote to ask “if Mrs. Elliott had any 
objections to renting him the doctor’s office. Had he 
not been one of Dr. Elliott’s students,” he went on to 
say, “he would not have asked this, but he hoped he 
would be given the preference in case we desired to rent 
it. ’ ’ He also wished to know if he could procure board- 
ing in some quiet, private family. 

The letter was written in a bold, free hand : it was well 
expressed — the words well chosen, and not too many. 
It was signed Hugh Ralston. 

“Do you remember him?” I asked, looking up from 
the paper. 

“Yes,” she replied; “your father had a high opinion 
of him, and would have tal^en him into partnership, had 
he lived. You were away at school when he was in the 
office.” 

“ He writes well,” I said, “a good, manly hand ; and 
his letter is well expressed.” 

“I am glad he wants to come here,” my mother 
went on. “It is not to every one I would rent your 
father’s office, or care to see in your father’s place. 
But Hugh Ralston may come ; for John liked and 

92 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 93 

trusted him. And, Sidney, I would like to have him 
board with us.” 

“ My dear mother, there is no necessity for that.” 

“I know there is not. But I should feel safer with a 
man in the house, and he will not interfere with us.” 

“ Please yourself, then, mother. If you wish it, of 
course it is all right.” 

“ Then I will answer the letter at once.” 

I cannot say I was at all interested in the prospect. I 
knew nothing of Hugh Ralston, had never even heard 
his name. What, indeed, was any man to me, save the 
one for whose coming I now looked. He did not disap- 
point me. He / as if there was but one “he” in the 
world to me. 

I do not intend to relate our conversation. Lovers’ 
talk is proverbially uninteresting, save to the parties con- 
cerned ; and, though it may be, nay, is very charming to 
them, I do not know that it is particularly edifying to 
others. 

“Our engagement, I fear, must be a long one,” he 
said, at last; “but not longer, Sidney, than I can help. 
As soon as I can, I shall claim you.” 

“I can wait,” I replied. “But when you ask for 
me — ” 

“ Which will, I hope, be sooner than I now anticipate. 
But, my darling, there is one thing I must ask of you.” 

“ What is that?” I questioned. 

“ This must be kept secret for a while.” 

There was a pause. 

“I do not like that,” I said. “Mr. Cameron, are you 
ashamed of me ? ’ ’ 

He seemed hurt at this.. “Ashamed of you, Sidney? 
Far from it, dear. I am proud of you — prouder than I 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


94 

can tell you. But it is absolutely necessary that we keep 
silence. Sidney, cannot we keep our happiness to our- 
selves, without telling the world, for a short time? ” 

“ There is no necessity for the whole world to know 
our affairs,” I began. “But my mother — your fam- 
ily—” 

“They must not suspect it, Sidney. I had best tell 
you the truth at once. My family are very anxious for 
my marriage with Meta Gray. My father, if she become 
my wife, will give me an income sufficient to settle me in 
life.” 

“And they would object to me,” I said, coolly. 
“Well, I am as proud as they are. I enter no family 
unwelcomed.” 

“They will welcome you heartily at the proper time. 
Only be patient, Sidney. I will not ask for secrecy one 
moment longer than is absolutely necessary. ’ * 

“I do not like it,” I began. “I prefer everything 
to be open.” 

“I don’t like it myself, pet; but you surely trust me, 
Sidney. Do you not think that I am acting solely in our 
best interests? Let me get fairly into practice, let me 
show my father I am not dependent upon him, and that 
day I will openly say to him : I have chosen my wife ; 
will you not receive her as your daughter ? ’ ’ 

I yielded, silenced, though not convinced. “ My 
mother — she must at least be told. I have no secrets 
from her, Mr. Cameron; and she has a right to know 
this.” 

He hesitated. “ I wish it could rest between ourselves. 
Well, tell your mother; we are safe with her.” 

So even this first interview was not without its thorns. 

“I wish I could stay longer with you, Sidney,” he 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


95 , 


said, as he rose to leave me. “But there is a dinner- 
party at home to-day, and my mother’s last words to me 
were that I must surely return in time. And let this,” 
slipping a ring on my finger as he spoke, an opal, set in 
red gold, “let this serve to remind you of me,. and that 
we belong to one another now.” A moment later, and 
I was alone. 

Such a day as it was ! When Mr. Cameron left me, 
the sky was one mass of soft, fleecy, gray clouds, floating 
near the earth. It was not cold ; but, ere long, one by 
one, down came the white flakes, slow and small at 
first, then faster, larger, till, by night, the air was full of 
the flying whiteness, and everything lay covered with its 
cold mantle. I looked out — the lamps burned dimly 
through the falling snow ; there was no sound in the street ; 
and I was glad to turn from the utter stillness of the snow- 
storm to the peaceful fireside where my mother sat, 
watching the flickering flame of the anthracite. 

“There is no sound in the quiet street, 

Not even the tread of passing feet; 

And, o’er the earth, a snowy shroud 
Falls swift from yonder dark-gray cloud. 

“I stand to gaze awhile on the night — ' 

Yet see not even one pale star’s light; 

I see but the snow-flakes, falling fast, 

Hear but the sigh of the wintry blast.” 

I murmured these lines to myself, as I seated myself by 
the blaze — always cheerful, more so such a night as this. 
“We will not light the gas so early, mother. I like to 
sit here and watch the pictures in the fire.” I laid my 
head on her knee as I spoke. But I did not see the fire 
— I forgot all save my own thoughts. Need I tell their 
subject? 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


My mother’s soft hand, smoothing my hair, and her 
low, sweet voice, at last aroused me. “Sidney, what are 
you thinking of? Even in this light, I can see how your 
eyes sparkle, how your cheek is flushed. Every now and 
then you smile at your own thoughts. They must be 
pleasant ones, my child: will you not share them with 
me?” 

My face burned. “You are a close observer, mother. 
It would not do for me to try and conceal anything from 
you. ’ ’ 

“I would never try to force your confidence, Sidney. 
But no one, save a mother, knows how a mother watches 
over a child ; how every look, every movement is seen. 
Nothing escapes a mother’s eye: there is not a varying 
expression on your face, Sidney, that I do not notice 
— not a sigh I do not hear, or a smile I do not see. 
Child, child, till you are a mother yourself you will never 
know the full power of a mother’s love.” 

“I can at least fully appreciate and return it,” I said, 
deeply moved by these words from my usually undemon- 
strative parent. “My thoughts are pleasant ones to-night, 
mother: you guessed rightly.” I let my hand fall by my 
side as I spoke. As I did so, the gleaming opal on my 
finger caught my eye. It sent forth a brilliant sparkle in 
the fire-light. I involuntarily thought, at that moment, 
of the weird power of. Meta’s eyes, their opaline lustre, 
and I shuddered. I rose from my lowly seat, and knelt 
at my mother’s side. “You asked me, mother, to share 
my thoughts with you. Listen, I have a long confession 
to make. Do you. know,” I said, “what I saw in that 
blazing fire ? I saw a home, where my mother was fondly 
cherished, where she held an honored place. A home 
which called me its mistress — a home full of home joys 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


97 


and pleasures — where I led such a peaceful, happy life 
as you led, before my father was taken from you; and 
of this life, mother dear, here is the sign.” I laid my 
hand on her knee as I spoke. The opal on my finger 
flashed and sparkled — glowing like a thing of life. 

“So my daughter has promised herself away ! I need 
not ask who is her choice.” 

“You only gain a son, dearest mother. My love for 
Will Cameron has only increased my love for you.” 

We were silent for a long time. 

“Mother, this is to be a secret. I could have no con- 
cealments from you, but no one else is to be admitted 
into our confidence.” 

“Does not Mr. Cameron intend to tell his family?” 

I blushed. “Not at present, I believe.” 

“Sidney, I do not like that. You will be placed in a 
most unpleasant position. * ’ 

“I know it,” I replied. “But it would be far worse 
for him” — and I repeated the arguments he had used to 
convince me. 

My mother shook her head. “I do not like anything 
underhand, as this seems to be. No, my dear,” as I 
looked up, “I cast no aspersions on your lover’s charac- 
ter. What little I have seen of him, I like — you know 
him better than I do — but it seems to me that this is not 
very manly in him ; you are bound, while he, to all 
appearance, remains free.” 

“I can trust him, mother,” I said, earnestly. “I 
wish I could make you look on it as I do.” 

“That would be impossible,” she said, with a faint 
smile. “But I do not wish to discourage you, Sidney. I 
have not yet forgotten that I was once young myself.” 

“Then you understand, mother, that everything is to 
9 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


98 

go on as usual. There will be no ostensible change to 
the world.” 

“ If you are satisfied, Sidney, I suppose I must be ; and 
I must try and reconcile myself to holding, henceforth, 
only the second place in my daughter’s heart. Well, it 
is but natural, and I must not complain. I had nearly 
forgotten a question I wished to ask,” she said presently. 
“ You tell me the Camerons are anxious to receive Miss 
Gray as their daughter, and Will Cameron has surely been 
very attentive to her for some time — how is that ? ’ ’ 

“They are friends, nothing more,” was my earnest 
reply. “I have no fears on that score.” 

“Your indifference to Hugh Ralston’s coming is now 
explained. Ah ! Sidney, it will be hard for me to give 
you up.” 

“It will not be for many a long day yet,” I said. 
“You will have plenty of time to accustom yourself to 
the thought. ’ ’ 

I did not think my mother was fully satisfied. She had 
said but little, but I knew her so well that I could see 
plainly she had not the same confidence in the future that 
I felt. I think, with all my natural dislike to anything 
approaching deception, that the slight appearance of ro- 
mance the matter wore blinded me, in part, to the indefi- 
nite position in which I was to stand. But I was despe- 
rately in love with Will Cameron. I had, in my own 
mind, invested him with all the qualities of the “blame- 
less, fearless” knight of whom I had once spoken with 
Meta. I had planned for myself a romance, of which 
he was the hero. Like most girls, I had formed an ideal 
to myself of my future lord and master, and I was well 
satisfied with the form in which this ideal had come to me. 
I was willing to trust to his judgment, to be guided wholly 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


99 


by him ; and, if he preferred that I should wait — why, 
so well and good. It would all come out right -in the 
end. 

So, with the light heart of youth, with its fearless antici- 
pations for the future, seeing naught save sunshine, dream- 
ing of naught save joy, I slept through die first night of the 
New Year. I took no thought of what the year might 
bring. My last thought ere I slept, my first thought ere 
I woke, was the same. 

Was it love, or fascination ? 


CHAPTER XV, 


A TRYING INTERVIEW, 



HE sun shone bright and clear the next morning, as 


X I set out on my usual round, which the holidays 
had, for a short time, interrupted. I met Annie and 
Meta, escorted by Mr. Perkins, as I turned into the main 


street. 


Meta left them to join me. “They will only be too 
grateful for my consideration. I have been trying to find 
some plausible excuse for leaving them for the last three 
squares. — Why were you not at Mrs. Cameron’s last 
night ? ’ ’ she asked, after we had remarked on the change 
in the weather. “Annie told me you were invited. ’* 

4 ‘ I think you are mistaken, Meta. I received no such 
invitation. ’ ’ 

“You missed a pleasant evening,” she went on. “ ‘ All 
the world and his wife,’ as the saying is, were there. A 
merry New- Year gathering.” 

“ I heard nothing of it,” I said. “ My evening passed 
quietly at home.” 

“ At any rate, you were not out in the storm. Console 
yourself with that.” 

“There is nothing like looking on the bright side of 
things,” I said, with a smile. “ It is not hard to do, such 
a day as this.” 

“I hate winter,” shrugging her fur-clad shoulders. 
“ I wish I could live where I never would see snow.” 


ioo 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


IOI 


“ I like it. This air is perfectly delicious to me.” 

At this moment Will Cameron overtook us. “I have 
been trying to' come up with you for some time,” he 
said, as he bowed to us. “You are both rapid walkers.” 

‘ * I must be, perforce, ’ * I said. 4 ‘ My time is precious. ’ ’ 

“I was at your house this morning, Miss Sidney; but 
only found Mrs. Elliott at home.” 

I felt my face flush. He turned to Meta: “I hope 
you feel no ill effects from last evening. ’ ’ 

“I only wish I had a few more to spend like it,” was 
her gay reply. “ Sidney, you don’t know what you miss 
by not loving society.” 

I made no reply. A few steps brought me to my des- 
tination. “I must leave you here, Meta, and thank you 
for your companionship.” 

I stood on the step a moment before I rang the bell, 
watching them. Meta’s silvery laugh rang through the 
air, her companion’s hea,d was bent down to hers, and I 
turned, with a half sigh, to enter the house. 

“I had a visitor this morning, Sidney,” my mother 
said to me on my return. “ Can you guess who ? ” 

“ I need not guess,” I said. “ Mr. Cameron told me 
he had seen you.” 

She had endeavored, she told me, to induce him to 
go openly to his father. 

“It would be more honorable, Mr. Cameron; and, 
besides, it is no more than you owe your father. ’ ’ 

He answ r ered her as he had answered me : 

“ No one can, more than I, deplore the necessity wdiich 
exists for secrecy ; and you may rest assured, Mrs. Elliott, 
that, so soon as I can, I shall openly claim your daughter.” 

“It was all very plausible, Sidney,” she said to me. 
“But I must say, I dread the consequences.” 

9 * 


102 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


A few days more brought Hugh Ralston’s reply to my 
mother’s letter. In concise, gentlemanly terms, he 
thanked her for the offer to receive him into her own 
family, and stated that, so soon as he could wind up his 
affairs in his present place of residence, he would come 
to Fairfield — probably, about the first of March. 

I cannot say I particularly liked my own position just 
now. Will, when with me, was as devoted as I could 
possibly desire. He spent part of every evening with 
me, except on Saturdays, when our choir met to practice, 
and there he was Meta’s most obedient servant. 

“Not a very pleasant thing,” he would say to me after- 
wards; “but we must not be suspected.” 

Still less agreeable were Annie’s constant remarks. I 
had, since New Year, seen a great deal of her. She 
watched her brother intently, and was always much 
pleased when he and Meta were together. And I had 
to sit and hear speculations as to the probable engagement 
of my betrothed husband. 

It was a remark of Annie’s to me, in the choir, which 
first opened my eyes to my own equivocal situation. 

“If Will is not engaged to Meta, he ought to be. It 
looks like it, any way ! ’ ’ 

“Why don’t you ask him, if you wish to know?” I 
said. 

“Brothers are not apt to confide in their sisters,” she 
said, smiling. “But, seriously, Sidney, I think the thing 
will soon be settled. He spends every evening with her, 
takes her to every party, and no choice he could make 
would be more agreeable to us. Look at them now.” 

Meta was sitting apart from the rest of us, idly turning 
the leaves of her music -book. Will Cameron sat near, 
his head on his hand, looking into her face with such evi- 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 103 

dent admiration that I could not but see it. He had 
never looked at me in that way. 

“ It looks suspicious, Annie,” I said, trying to smile. 

“Don’t it! ” she said, gayly. “They have forgotten 
everything but themselves. I am half inclined to go and 
tease them.” 

“Stay here, please! ” I said, laying my hand on hers, 
to detain her. * 1 They will not thank you for the inter- 
ruption. ’ ’ 

Her eye fell on my ring. “What a beautiful stone! 
Where did you get it, Sidney? ” 

“It was a New-Year’s present.” 

“A present! Did you ever hear the old superstition, 
that the opal brings misfortune to its wearer ? ’ ’ 

“I like the Oriental story best — ‘A soul imprisoned 
in a pearl.’ But, I fear, henceforth I shall only think of 
your tradition.” 

* ‘ I should be sorry to spoil your pleasure in wearing 
it.” 

“ It don’t matter,” I said, carelessly dropping the ring 
into my pocket. ‘ ‘ It is not likely I shall wear it much 
longer.” 

I was not sorry to find myself at home that evening. I 
wanted to be alone — to think over what I had seen. My 
confidence in Will Cameron was shaken, and, for the first 
time, I doubted him. 

It is a bitter thing when we first learn to doubt any one 
we love. Love cannot exist without confidence: and 
when that departs, what is left? The rich fruit we sought 
to grasp turns to dust and ashes in our hands — we have 
made an idol, but to find it clay. Oh ! easier far to weep 
over our friends, cold in death, than to live, knowing 
them unworthy of the wealth of affection we have lavished 
upon them. 


104 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


He had walked home that evening with me. At part- 
ing, I had asked him to give me an hour the following 
morning, and, at the appointed time, he came. 

He met me as affectionately as ever. “Sidney, you 
are pale this morning. What is my darling doing with 
such white cheeks ? ’ ’ 

My heart thrilled at the loving tones. “ Don’t talk to 
me so, I entreat you! Will!” I said, standing before 
him, “are you in love with Meta Gray? ” 

“ Why do you ask me that question, Sidney? I love 
you.” 

“ Stop ! ” I said, almost angrily. “You have not an- 
swered my question.” 

His eyes fell under my searching look. “Are you 
jealous — ” he began. 

“ Jealous ! not I ! ” 

“Then why need you bring Meta Gray between us? 
Sidney, are you losing confidence in me ? ” I turned 
away. He got up, walking up and down the room. 
Suddenly, he stopped before me and took my hands. 
“ Sidney ! I am not worthy of you ! My admiration, my 
respect, wholly, fully, entirely — noble, true woman that 
you are, you possess ! But,” his eyes glittering, his cheeks 
flushed, “I adore Meta Gray! You are worth twenty 
such, and yet the mere touch of her hand is perfect hap- 
piness to me ! ’ ’ 

I shrank from him. He sighed. 

“ Sidney, my fate is in your hands. I have felt like a 
wretch for weeks. But you still can save me — save my 
honor. You can make me, raise me, aid me. Be my 
wife, and I will do all in my power to make you forget 
this transient madness. I know I am asking a great 
deal,” he went on, after a pause, in which I stood lean- 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. IC>5 

ing against the mantel-piece, my face buried in my hands. 
“But you love me, Sidney ; let that love plead my for- 
giveness. Do not let me feel that I have wrecked your 
happiness. Give yourself to me, and it will be the study 
of my life to make you forget this morning. ’ ’ 

I raised my face, pale as his own was now. 

“Don’t ask me; it is too late.* We must part, Mr. 
Cameron; we can still be friends.” 

“It may be best for you — not for me. Sidney, you 
will not thus dismiss me ? ’ ’ 

I laid the ring, pledge of our betrothal, in his out- 
stretched hand. He clasped my own in his. 

“Good-bye,” I said, firmly. “You will thank me 
for this some day. ’ ’ 

I met his eyes, bent on me imploringly. My own were 
dim with tears, but I forced them back. 

“We were not suited to each other. I do not blame 
you, Mr. Cameron ; you could not help your own nature. 
You will soon forget this. It is as well that the secret lay 
between ourselves.” 

“You will not deny me your friendship? ” 

“ The less we see of each other for the present the 
better,” I said. “It would be awkward for both. And 
now, Mr. Cameron, you must leave me.” 

He said no more, and withdrew. I listened to his 
departing footsteps, and then, throwing myself on the 
sofa, I burst into bitter tears. 

The tears did me good. They were the first and the last 
I shed over my broken engagement — my engagement 
which had lasted two months. After all, it was “ not so 
much a broken heart as a broken dream ” I had to mourn. 

“It is hard for you, I know, Sidney,” my mother said 
to me. “But I never thought it would end otherwise. 
You will soon forget it.” 


io 6 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


Her words proved true. I was not the first who, won 
by similar tastes, had imagined, that because my lover 
and I thought alike on some topics, we were fitted for 
each other. It was very hard to bear ; but the secrecy, 
to which I had so strongly objected at first, was my best 
aid. It spared me a great deal. Proud as I was, I could 
not endure pity. Sympathy, from a few, was welcome, 
not from all. 

It was not long before I had regained my usual tran- 
quillity. I had loved an ideal ; and when the being I 
had invested with the many qualities of this ideal failed 
to come up to my standard, is it astonishing that love 
vanished? Strange to say, ere one month had passed, I 
was like another person. The trial, while it lasted, was 
a hard one, yet, when I could look dispassionately on 
the matter, I could only wonder at my own feelings. 

“ I am shamed thro’ all my nature to have loved so slight a thing.” 

“ It has done you good, Sidney,” my mother said one 
day to me. “You are softened down and more consid- 
erate.” 

I was, in some things, happier. I could meet people 
now, feeling I had nothing to conceal, that no one could 
reproach me with deception. Yet it had made me sus- 
picious. I had given full confidence, perfect trust ; and 
because one had failed me, I doubted all. My girlhood 
was over. 

I have touched but lightly on this episode in my life. 
Briefly though I have spoken of it, I would gladly, if I 
could, efface the recollection of those days from my 
memory. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


huoh ralston’s arrival. 

T HERE are times in our lives when the days go on 
quietly, with nothing to mark them save their own 
round of duties, and we only note their flight by the 
changing seasons. To such periods, monotonous though 
they may be at the time, we afterwards look back, won- 
dering that we ever murmured at their dulness. They 
seem like calms in the storms of life — green spots in the 
desert. 

So, quietly, tranquilly, the days glided by. In the^ 
three months that followed the events I have faintly traced, 

I remember but little. One of my memories of those 
days is a conversation I held with Meta Gray. 

She came, one March morning, looking fresh and fair 
as a spring flower. “Do you know Will Cameron has 
gone West?” she asked. 

-“I did not,” I quietly replied. “What has taken him 
there?” 

“Business for his father, Annie says. I could have 
told them a different story.” 

“Old Mr. Cameron has land in Missouri, I believe. 
Probably his son has gone there.” 

She looked at me mischievously — then nestled close 
to me, laying her cheek on my hand, with the grace of a 
kitten, to which I could not help mentally comparing her. 
“Then you knew he was gone?” 

107 


108 SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 

“This is the first I had heard of it. I have not seen 
the gentleman in question for weeks.” 

“And you two used to be intimate. Sidney,” her 
eyes fixed on mine, “I once thought he liked you.” 

I met her look steadily, though I felt my heart beat. 
“We were very good friends.” 

“I know that. But for the last month he has nearly 
lived at uncle’s.” 

“Am I to congratulate you, Meta?” and my voice 
sounded harsh to my own ears. The wounded nerve still 
quivered. 

“On my rejection of Will Cameron? — yes.” 

“You have refused him, then?” 

“It was such fun, Sidney.” She laid her hand on my 
shoulder, bright gleams of color in her fair cheeks, her 
strange eyes flashing. “You should have seen him — 
kneeling, as he did, at my feet, imploring me to listen to 
him. He will make a good lawyer if he is as earnest in 
pleading at the bar as he was with me.” She laughed, 
bitterly. 

“Meta ! I -thought you liked him ! ’ ’ 

“So he thought, and so he said. As if, for a few 
smiles, a few words of flattery on my part, I was to pay 
the penalty of tying myself down for life.” 

“Have you no heart?” I asked. 

“Oh, yes! somewhere in my composition, there’s 
something whose pulsations send the blood to perform its 
usual functions, as anatomists say; but for anything fur- 
ther — Now, don’t look so sober, Sidney ; I ’ve done no- 
thing wrong. ’ ’ 

“I will not listen to you any longer, Meta. First, 
you should have kept Mr. Cameron’s secret.” 

“Iam keeping it,” she interrupted. “It is safe with 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


iog 

you. Sidney, I cannot live without excitement, and if 
I did not try my power on some one I should die.” 

“ What will you do about Annie Cameron?” 

“ Nothing. Her brother can surely keep his own 
counsel, and I am fully able to take care of myself.” 

“Do you know what you remind me of?” I said. 
“The old German fable of the Loreley.” # 

1 1 What is that ? ’ * 

“Did you never hear it? A beautiful female, who, by 
her charms, and sweet singing, lured men to destruction.” 
“Like the sirens of mythology?” 

“Only you live in the nineteenth century, and they 
flourished in olden times. ’ ’ 

She laughed. “It .is well you are a woman, Sidney. 
I might else try my powers of fascination on you. * ’ 

The mail, two or three days later, brought me a hurried 
note — only a few lines, with neither date nor signature: 

“ Ere you receive this, you will have heard of my de- 
parture from Fairfield. In this disappointment — for 
Meta Gray has refused me — I crave your sympathy. 
Sidney, can you ever forgive me my madness ? I have 
awakened from my brief intoxication to learn that, while 
I sought to gain a glittering gaud, which turned to no- 
thingness in my grasp, I lost a pearl, richer than all its 
tribe. In time, may I return to you, when you have for- 
gotten and forgiven ? ’ ’ 

“It is too late ! ” I said to myself, as I dropped this 
strange missive into the flames. I gave it no answer. 

A few days later, Meta came to bid me good-bye. 
She was to be absent a few weeks, visiting a school friend. 
And the day she left, Hugh Ralston came. 

I had stopped at Mrs. Merton’s that afternoon, know- 
10 


I 10 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


mg she was alone. The time had slipped quickly by ; 
for we sat talking until the rapidly lengthening shadows 
warned me to depart. It was nearly sundown, and, not 
caring to be alone in the streets after dusk, I hurried 
home. 

My mother was not in her usual sitting-room when I 
reached the hqpse. I did not seek her, but went, instead, 
'to the parlor, where, seating myself at the piano, I soon 
forgot everything except my music. 

Our parlor was a cheerful, pleasant room, which had 
been added to the house by my father. It was not large, nor 
was it elegantly furnished, like some apartments in which 
comfort is sacrificed to ostentation and display. There 
was a bay-window at one end, where, during the winter, 
I kept a stand of flourishing plants, whose fresh verdure 
and gay flowers enlivened the room. The walls were 
papered in oak, bordered with crimson ; a plain carpet 
of corresponding colors covered the floor ; a few choice 
engravings hung on the walls ; chairs, made for use, not 
for show, covered with the same bright-colored rep ; my 
piano, a few light tables, and a lounge matching the 
chairs, were the only articles of furniture the room con- 
tained. Over the grate — for my father loved to see the 
cheerful blaze of the sea-coal — was a plain mantel, sup- 
porting a mirror in a frame of black walnut. 

A cosy little room, opening from this home-like par- 
lor, was the place where we usually sat through the day. 
But our evenings were all spent in our parlor. It was 
not kept only for company. My father used to say he 
did not believe in keeping the best for strangers. 

I played on and. on — for, in spite of the time given to 
my pupils, I devoted a certain part of each day to my own 
music — for nearly an hour. Rising, then, to change my 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT . 


Ill 


book, I heard voices in the adjoining room, and, closing 
the instrument, I went to the door. My mother sat there, 
talking to a gentleman, whom I immediately guessed to 
be our new inmate. I looked at him with a considerable 
degree of curiosity; but I had only time for a hurried 
glance, for my mother looked up and saw me. 

“My daughter Sidney, Dr. Ralston.” 

He rose to acknowledge the introduction. I was about 
to greet him with a formal bow, but he held out his hand. 

“Iam glad to meet Miss Elliott.” 

Simple words, such as any one might have used, but 
heartily said. We shook hands — mine lay for a moment 
in his, broad, firm, and strong, giving a cordial grasp; 
not one of those mere touches I so despise, given for 
form’s sake. 

He placed a chair for me, then recommenced his con- 
versation with my mother. Then I had time to examine 
him. 

He was tall, broad-shouldered — that I had seen when 
he rose at my entrance. I liked his face, though it could 
not, strictly, be called handsome. The broad, open 
brow betokened intellect ; the dark, flashing eyes looked 
you, unshrinkingly, full in the face ; the well-closed mquth 
was shaded by a heavy mustache, matching in color the 
closely-cut chestnut hair ; the firm, square chin, smoothly 
shaven, told of decision — perhaps obstinacy. One hand, 
large, white, and well-shaped — a good hand for a sur- 
geon, I had thought, as I felt its firm grasp — lay carelessly 
on his knee, even in rest betokening, as did his whole 
frame, strength and power ; the other supported his head. 

“I like his looks,” was my mental comment. “I 
wonder what he will prove on future acquaintance ! ’ ’ 

‘ What conclusion have you come to, after all, Miss 


2 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


Elliott, ” said the deep, firm tones. “I hope ’t is a favor- 
able one.” 

I looked down, about to make some disclaimer, but 
the merry look in those dark eyes made me change my 
reply. 4 ‘How did you know I was forming one?” 

“Not very hard, when you have been watching me for 
the last half-hour. Are you satisfied with your inspection, 
or shall I give you further opportunity ? ’ ’ 

“A cat may look at a king,” was my laughing reply. 

“Aye — but what did pussy see when she went to 
London to look at majesty? Only a mouse, for she was 
true to her own nature.” 

“Is Mother Goose in your medical library? ” I asked. 
“Because, if not, I can provide you with a copy.” 

“Thank you,” with a quizzical look. “I have no 
doubt I should be benefited by its perusal. Do you re- 
commend it? ” 

“ I would not presume to offer an opinion, Dr. Ral- 
ston.” 

“I am very harmless, Miss Elliott. You need not be 
afraid of me.” 

Harmless ! I thought otherwise, as I looked at his 
mischievous eyes. 

“Well, why don’t you speak? I don’t intend we 
shall be strangers, Miss Elliott. Your mother has been 
very kind in admitting me to her house, and I intend to 
show my appreciation of her kindness by making friends 
with her daughter.” 

“Provided, of course, her daughter consents,” I said. 
“ I don’t believe in taking things for granted.” 

“Now please don’t annihilate me altogether! You 
can’t make me quarrel with you, young lady.” 

“ I wish you would sit down and keep quiet,” I said ; 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


”3 

for he had risen from his chair, and was standing in front 
of me, one hand smoothing his moustache. “ There is 
the evening paper ; amuse yourself over that. ’ ’ 

“I had rather talk to you.” But he sat down obe- 
diently, with the offered paper. I went to the book-case, 
and selected a volume from one of its shelves. 

“This paper is very stupid,” he remarked, laying it 
aside. I was prepared for this, and I quietly laid “Mo- 
ther Goose” before him. His eyes twinkled as he 
thanked me for my politeness. 

“I give it to you,” I said, “on the same principle on 
which we give toys to children — to keep them quiet. ’ ’ 

“I may, at least, talk to you, Mrs. Elliott. Your 
daughter is not socially inclined this evening. * ’ 

He talked to my mother for some time. I watched 
him, as I thought, unperceived ; but I was mistaken. 

“ If you will not talk to me, you shall not look at me,” 
he said, as he dextrously built up a screen of books on 
the table between us. “Now, as I do not suppose you 
are a clairvoyant, you cannot see me.” 

“Were you conscious of my gaze?” I asked, from 
behind my screen. 

“ I think we are all conscious of a fixed look,” he said. 
“Did you never feel tempted, in church particularly, to 
look in a certain direction, and, on turning round, find 
some one’s eyes bent upon you? ” 

“No one ever took that trouble with me,” I said, 
laughing. 

“ Miss Elliott, I never pay compliments. That I wish 
you to understand thoroughly at once.” 

“ You cannot dislike them more than I do,” I said, 
curtly ; for I felt I had the worst of it. He laughed, and 
quietly demolished the barrier between us. 

IQ* 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 14 

“Why did you do that? I was very well satisfied to 
have it remain.” 

We were summoned at that moment to supper. It was 
considerably later than usual when we sat down, and 
after tea we did not linger long around the fire. 

“With your permission, Mrs. Elliott,” Dr. Ralston 
said, “I will smoke a cigar on the porch ; ” and, as I bade 
him good night, “I foresee that you and I will be very 
good friends.” 

“How do you like him?” my mother said to me. 

“ He is very different from what I expected. I thought 
he was very young, mother, and he is a man of thirty.” 

“He is just twenty-eight. I like him, Sidney. I 
don’t think we need regret admitting him to our home.” 

I found him, the next morning, when I came down 
stairs, in the sitting-room. He placed a chair for me. 
I had already noticed his great attention to all little mat- 
ters of etiquette. 

“I am an early riser,” he said, in reply to my ex- 
pressed astonishment at finding him down so soon. “It 
is a pity to lose so many of our hours in sleep. ’ ’ 

“I am not an early riser from choice. My time is 
money, and I cannot afford to waste it,” I replied. 

“ I hope I will soon have none to waste. I want to be 
kept busy. You have a beautiful town here, Miss Elliott. 
I hope there is a niche in it for me to fill.” 

“Fairfield is a pretty place,” I said; “but you will 
find it very dull, Dr. Ralston. Even I, who am accus- 
tomed to it, often weary of its monotony.” 

“If I can only get plenty of work, I shall not care 
for the dulness. I am not fond of society ; and when I 
do want that, I will call on you. ’ ’ 

“ Shall I introduce you to my friends? ” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


15 


“ What ! take me around to be inspected by the young 
ladies of Fairfield? I thought the inspection last night, 
by a certain pair of black eyes, was enough, and you 
threaten me with more ! I thank you for your kindness, 
Miss Elliott.’ * 

“ I will do it in self-defence,” I retorted. “ You will 
drive me crazy in a week. ’ ’ « 

“I should deeply regret such a misfortune. What are 
you going to do with your morning ? ’ ’ 

“I shall be out this morning, ” I said, coolly. 

“I beg your pardon. I had no business to ask the 
question. I will be more generous, and tell you I expect 
to spend my morning in study.” 

‘ ‘ Easier than teaching.” 

“I had forgotten. Do you know your mother has 
given me the privilege of using your father’s library?” 

“ You are right in calling it a privilege,” I said, sur- 
prised. “She prizes those books very highly, and no 
one ever touches them now, save herself. ’ ’ 

“ I appreciate her kindness most fully. Be assured I 
shall not abuse it.” He was serious enough now. “ Do 
you know you remind me of your father, Miss Sidney ? 
He had a higher opinion of me than I deserved, and I 
believe I owe your mother’s kindness to his partiality. I 
cannot hope to take his place in Fairfield ; but I may, at 
least, follow in his footsteps. ’ ’ 

Hugh Ralston was soon at home with us. My mother 
seemed brighter for his presence, and he showed her a 
tender, gentle deference that I liked to see. He was a 
thorough gentleman, polite to all. He and my mother 
were, before long, devoted friends. “Hugh” she 
called him, at his own request ; it reminded him, he said, 
of his own mother, dead years ago. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 1 6 

“What little good there is in me, Mrs. Elliott,” I 
heard him say one day, “I owe wholly to my mother. 
As a boy, the fear of grieving her, of hearing her sole 
reproach, ‘ Was it right, Hugh ? ’ kept me from many a 
boyish folly, from many a thoughtless deed ; and even 
now, man as I am, her influence follows me. ‘ She, 
being dead, yet speaketh ; ’ for I remember her pure, 
holy life, her prayers, her hopes for her wilful boy ; and 
while that sweet memory lingers with me, I cannot go 
wholly astray. ’ ’ 

He paused. My mother made no reply. She knew 
that silence is sometimes more expressive of true sympa- 
thy than any words we can use. He went on : 

“She was a good, true woman. And to think this is 
all I have left of her ! ’ ’ 

He took from the inner pocket of his coat a small min- 
iature, which he opened, looking at it with a moisture in 
his eyes not unbecoming his manhood. 

“It is but a faint shadow of her.” He laid the pic- 
ture in my mother’s hand. I saw it, months later. 

It represented a pale, fair woman, with sweet, sad eyes; 
fair hair, folded back from a placid brow, on which you 
read peace ; a calm mouth, with the same firm expression 
her son’s wore. 

“ It is a good, true face,” my mother said; “ delicate, 
refined, yet resolute. Hugh, I do not wonder you rev- 
erenced her; for on her brow rests the beatitude: 
‘ Blessed are the pure in heart. ’ ’ ’ 

He closed the miniature reverently. 

“I have sometimes thought, Mrs. Elliott, that when 
I marry — as I hope to, some day; I think of it at 
times — ” 

“As it is but right you should.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


II 7 


“I think, remembering her, my mother” — how rev- 
erently he said that word — “ I think, remembering her, 
I would wish my wife to be like her. A fair-haired, 
blue-eyed girl, gentle, good, and womanly. Yet, for her 
sake, I reverence all womanhood.” 

They had forgotten my presence. So I, feeling I had 
no right to listen to this quiet talk, slipped noiselessly 
from the room ; and they never missed me, nor knew I 
had been present. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 

I T was not long before Hugh Ralston’s hands were 
full. A lucky chance — no, I will not say chance; 
for there is no such thing in this world — brought him 
into notice ; and our people in Fairfield, though slow to 
receive new-comers, and tardy in acknowledging their 
merit, soon gave him their confidence. There had been 
an accident on the railroad — one of those fearful crashes 
in which there is “ nobody to blame:” only a screw 
loose, a slight flaw in a piece of iron, unseen, unsuspected; 
and some day it yields, and souls, unprepared, are hur- 
ried into eternity. 

There was such an accident near town : some lives 
lost, not many, yet each one in itself most precious — 
each one the light and joy of some household, where 
nevermore they might listen for the coming footstep, or 
again see the loved form ; some losing arm or leg, thank- 
ful, though halt and maimed, to escape with life ; one 
or two so fearfully injured that death were almost prefer- 
able to a life of suffering; and, as I said before, “no- 
body to blame.” 

To this accident Hugh Ralston owed his first case. A 
lucky chance, did I say ? It was to his treatment of one 
of the sufferers that I alluded. 

He was a poor man, one of the brakesmen on the 
road — a position full of danger, and most responsible. 

118 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 19 

He was severely injured, chiefly about the head and right 
arm, the latter crushed and laceratejd. The physicians 
prepared to amputate it. 

“ Don’t ! ” he said, feebly. “I can bear the pain, but 
save my arm. My poor wife and children — what would 
they do without my work ? ’ ’ 

# Dr. Ralston stepped forward. “Permit me,” he said, 
in his cool manner. “I think”— after a rapid examina- 
tion — “ the arm can be saved.” 

4 * Are you willing to take the responsibility ? * one of 
the doctors present asked. He was an elderly man, of 
high repute in his profession. 

Ralston bowed. “I should like to take the case. 
With all due deference to superior experience, I think 
time will show that I am right.” 

“ It will be a good advertisement for you, if you suc- 
ceed,” another said to him. “ But if you fail — Take 
my advice, Ralston. The man’s life, at any rate, can be 
saved.” 

“ I can, at least, try. His arm. is nearly as valuable to 
him as his life. I will take the responsibility on my own 
shoulders.” 

There were a good many comments made on the obsti- 
nacy of the young physician ; but the event proved he 
was right. He cured his patient; and, from the day 
that was known, he was sought after, and he soon had no 
reason to complain of lack of occupation. 

“Who is this Dr. Ralston I hear so much about?” 
Annie Cameron asked me, one Saturday evening at our 
usual choir-meeting. “Do you know anything about 
him?” 

“I ought to, V I replied, “ as he boards with us; “but 
I really can tell you very little, except that he is an old 


120 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


student of my father’s, and that my mother thinks very 
highly of him. ” 

“ Did he not come to church with her last Sunday? ” 
Kate Strong asked. “ A tall, dark-haired man, with a 
very firm mouth and chin.” 

“ The very same,” I replied. 

“ Why don’t you bring him here ?” was the next ques- 
tion. 

“Why? I don’t even know that he can sing. Per- 
haps, if f tell him the young ladies want to see him, it 
might be sufficient attraction ; but he is, in my opinion, 
no ladies’ man.” 

“ Did you know Meta had come home?” Annie asked. 

“Who is taking my name in vain?” said the well- 
known voice, flute-like as ever. 1 1 Sidney, Kate, Annie — 
I am glad to see you all again ! ’ ’ 

There were general exclamations of pleasure. 

4 ‘ I knew I should find you all here ; so I said nothing 
to Aunt Mary, but just ran around. What ’s the news in 
Fairfield? — or is it still going on in the old routine? ” 

‘ ‘ There is nothing new, ’ ’ Annie said, laughing. ‘ * Will 
talks of coming home next month ; and there ’s an addi- 
tion to the medical force of the city.” 

“A new doctor ! We needed him in this healthy place.” 

“He is doing very well,” I said. “You ought to 
know him, Meta.” 

“I don’t like young doctors. They are generally 
extremely disagreeable.” 

“This one is handsome,” Kate laughed. “I liked 
Dr. Ralston’s appearance.” 

Meta’s whole expression changed. Her bright smile 
was gone, and her lips, firmly drawn together, were per- 
fectly colorless. She caught my eye. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT . 


I 2 I 


‘‘Ralston, did you say? Hugh Ralston — I have 
heard the name.” 

• “ It is not a very common one,” I said. 

“ I beg your pardon. There are Ralstons in Phila- 
delphia.” 

“This one is from Illinois,” I answered. 

“Is he? ” evidently relieved. “I do not know him.” 

I had completely forgotten this conversation, when a 
trifle, a day or so later, recalled it to me. I was walk- 
ing with Meta, when Hugh Ralston met me. He stopped. 

“ I shall not be home for tea this evening, Miss Sidney. 
Will you tell your mother?’ 

He saw Meta at that moment, and raised his hat. To 
my great amazement, she offered her hand. 

“ I am glad to see you, Dr. Ralston. This is an unex- 
pected pleasure.” 

He bowed coolly. 

“ I certainly did not expect to meet Miss Gray in Fair- 
field.” His tone was freezingly polite. Meta smiled. 

“ It is pleasant to meet old acquaintances.” 

“Sometimes — yes.” And, with another bow, he 
passed on. I turned to Meta. 

“I thought you did not know him. Where in the 
world did you two ever meet ? ’ ’ 

“ How was I to know which Hugh Ralston this was?” 
pettishly. “I met him in Philadelphia, attending lec- 
tures. He has not improved since then.” 

“It is strange he has never mentioned you,” I per- 
sisted. “ Were you friends ? ” 

“Friends — -yes. Are you a judge of lace, Sidney? 

I bought some a few days since. ’ ’ 

She was unwilling, I saw, to speak of Hugh Ralston. 
My curiosity, I confess, was excited on the subject ; but 
ii 


122 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


I could not press her, as she was evidently unwilling to 
discuss it with me. 

Dr. Ralston came home early that evening. Some- 
thing, I don’t know what, kept me from questioning him. 
He was very restless. I bent over . my book, trying to 
read, while he paced up and down the room. At last 
he stopped, and, drawing a chair up, he sat down oppo- 
site to me, his restless hand fretting the glossy brown of 
his moustache. 

“Put down your book, please, Miss Sidney. I want 
to talk to you.” 

“ Well ! ” my fingers between the pages of the volume. 

‘ ‘ I have been expecting to be questioned all the even- 
ing. Proceed, won’t you?” 

“I have no questions to ask,” I said, carelessly. “I 
am not your ‘ father confessor. ’ ’ ’ 

“ Have you no curiosity ? ” watching me. “You have 
not even asked me where I met your friend.” 

I smiled. “Meta told me — in Philadelphia.” 

“Then you knew we were old acquaintances.” 

“I did not, till this afternoon, know you had ever met. 
All I know, I have told you.” And I re-opened my book. 

“She has, at least, some little discretion,” he muttered 
almost inaudibly. “What are you reading, Miss Sid- 
ney?” in his usual tone, and with his old manner. 

I mentioned the name. It was “The Mill on the 
Floss” — that book with its strange motto: “The mills 
of the gods grind slowly.” 

“I have read it. How do you like it.” 

“I don’t like it at. all,” I said. “It is well written, 
but I do not admire Maggie Tulliver.” 

“It is like all women’s books,” sarcastically. “Not 
one of the sex ever could write.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


123 

“ I think Mrs. Browning and Charlotte Bronte are suf- 
ficient refutation to that assertion. ’ ’ 

“ Ay — but they were exceptional cases. To tell you 
the truth, Miss Sidney, I don’t approve of female author- 
ship. You cannot write without making yourself public 
property, without subjecting yourself to every one’s criti- 
cism, giving yourself to -the world. For every one who 
writes unveils their own nature, and it seems to me incon- 
sistent with true womanly delicacy to be willing so to cast 
aside all reserve.” 

4 4 You are prejudiced,” I said, smiling. “I fear you 
have but a poor opinion of our sex.” 

“You mistake me, Miss Sidney. I have a most exalted 
opinion of women. Of course, there are some who fall 
far short of what they ought to be, but I do your sex full 
justice. What would earth be without you? what would 
our homes be without your softening, refining influences ? 
That is your sphere ; ours is action.” 

“I do not agree with you,” I said, quietly. “If we 
have talents, why should we not use them? I do not 
think that contact with the world does us harm : and as for 
those who have not woman’s usual occupations, the care 
of a house and children ; would you have them sit with 
their hands folded, doing nothing, leading -a miserable, 
stagnating existence ? ’ ’ 

My mother spoke. “Sidney is right, Hugh. I cannot 
see how a woman’s earning her own bread, using the 
powers with which she is gifted, at all detracts from her 
womanliness.” 

“ How is it with myself? ” I rather mischievously asked. 
“For a year past, Dr. Ralston, I have earned my own 
living by my musical abilities. It has done me no harm. ’ ’ 

He smiled. “ We were discussing female authorship, 
Miss Sidney.” 


i-4 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“Ay — but even there! If we can use the pen, why 
forbid it to us? You yield us the palm in epistolary com- 
position : why debar us from other literary pursuits ? ’ * 

“1 can answer you by appealing to all feminine compo- 
sitions. No woman ever wrote without making all her 
characters shadows of her own self. She writes, not from 
what she sees, but from her own feelings. Take, for in- 
stance, the two writers you named to me. Jane Eyre is 
Charlotte Bronte herself, with her own thoughts, hopes, 
and feelings ; and as for Mrs. Browning, what man would 
ever, as she has done in her ‘De Profundis,’ make the 
whole world the confidant of his sorrows?” 

“I fear there is no convincing you.” 

“Try it yourself, Miss Sidney. I doubt not but that 
you could, if you chose, write a novel. But don’t under- 
take that ; try a short story, and if, before its completion, 
you do not find that all your characters are either the 
reflections of yourself, their feelings your own, their words 
yours; or else that they are faint shadows of your acquaint- 
ances, why, I will own myself in the wrong. ’ ’ 

1 1 1 have neither talent nor inclination that way, ’ ’ I said, 
in reply. “ I never, at school, could write a respectable 
composition.” 

“The power may be latent.” 

“I have no desire to try. Still, I hold to my position. 
Wait, Dr. Ralston; I shall yet see you the husband of an 
authoress, and proud of your wife’s talents.” 

“I hope,” seriously, “your prediction may fail in its 
fulfilment. My wife must belong to me, not to the whole 
world. I would not share a divided heart.” 

“Like Alexander, you would rule — yet you would 
rule — alone!” I misquoted playfully. “ We will see, 
Dr. Ralston.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


125 


He answered, in the same tone: “You are right. I 
dislike inky fingers, and I don’t want ‘copy’ and ‘proof’ 
to monopolize my wife.” 

“ I should like to see her,” I said. 

“I hope you will, some day.” 

“Mother,” I said, a few moments later, “Will Cam- 
eron is coming home next month.” I was surprised to 
find how coolly I could speak on the subject. 

“ Then your choir will be complete again.” 

No further remarks were made on that topic. I re- 
sumed my book, my mother took up her knitting, and I 
thought I would now be permitted to read in quiet. I 
was mistaken. 

“Miss Sidney ! are you a strong-minded female ? ” 

“What a question, Dr. Ralston!” 

“I wish you would call me Hugh, as your mother 
does,” shaking himself in a way that reminded me some- 
how of a great Newfoundland dog; “surely it is more 
friendly than that formal ‘ Dr. Ralston ! ’ ” 

“What has that to do with my being strong-minded?” 

“Nothing! only please lay aside that book, and make 
yourself agreeable.” 

“You are a perfect torment,” I said, laying aside the 
offending volume. “What do you want?” 

“A game of chess, if you can play. I found men and 
board carefully laid away this morning, and immediately 
resolved to bring them out.” 

So our games of chess began. After that, nearly every 
evening found us engaged in the friendly strife. “It is a 
wonder,” I said to him one evening, after a long-con- 
tested game ending in a draw, in reply to some compli- 
ment on my skill: “It is a wonder you acknowledge I 
know a little of the game. I never yet played with any 
u * 


126 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


gentleman who was willing to attribute his defeat to my 
skill ; it was always owing to some mistake, some misplay 
on his part.” 

“ I don’t think we like to see women good chess-play- 
ers. Chess is such a game of strategy — of conspiracies, 
that one scarcely likes to see a lady proficient in such 
qualities. I don’t look on it in that way.” 

“I think chess much over-rated,” I said, in reply. 
“It is a mere matter of memory; every move brings its 
corresponding reply.” 

“It is the only thing we don’t quarrel over,” he said, 
smiling. “We, unfortunately, seldom agree.” 

“I hope you will agree with me on one subject,” I 
said, with a smile. “We are invited to the Camerons’ 
to-morrow evening, and I am requested to bring you.” 

“So I must sacrifice myself for the good of society! I 
am at your service, Miss Sidney, for to-morrow evening. 
But remember, you must look your bonniest.” 

* 1 What are you doing with Scotch words ? ” I ques- 
tioned. “Who scolded the other day because I used 
some French expression?” 

“In the first place, Miss Sidney, I am half Scotch. 
My mother was a Scotswoman, native-born ; else where 
do you think I got my rough name, Hugh, or, as they 
spell it, Hew? So I have a right to use my own mother’s 
tongue. In the second place, there are enough words in 
the English language, without our seeking their equivalents 
in French. It is a mere affectation, after all. And if you 
cannot find an English word which expresses your mean- 
ing, why, coin one.” 

“Thank you for the advice. I have no desire to go 
down to posterity as an improver (?) of my mother- 
tongue.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


27 


He laughed. “There are two things I do hate. One 
is this habit some young ladies have of interlarding their 
conversation with foreign words, French or Italian. 
Even books, now-a-days, are not free from it. You can- 
not take one up, without finding its pages profusely be- 
sprinkled with phrases which might be much better 
expressed in English.” 

“But French is so generally understood,” I objected. 

‘ 1 So, well and good ! Knowledge is useful, yet we do 
not always want to parade it.” 

“And your second aversion?” 

“Need you ask? only slang. Miss Sidney, the Amer- 
ican people are going ahead rapidly enough in the 1 fast ’ 
line, to use one of the expressions myself, without our 
young ladies lending a helping hand.” 

“You are very particular,” I said, somewhat amused. 
“I will answer you in the words of some verses I read 
not many days since : 

“ ‘ ’T is masculine to doctor, lecture, quibble; 

M ust women be content to work or scribble ? 

‘ At best, all life contains its share of trial — 

’Neath freedom’s sunshine men can brave the gloom! 
Our path, perforce, is strewed with self-denial; 

Can we gaze patiently upon our doom? 

To serve, to nurse, to tutor, and for all this 
To get, sometimes, a patronizing kiss. 

* Then let us still be pure and good, and trusting — 

No harm to wish us just a trifle wiser; 

A woman not a woman is disgusting, 

But independence don’t make me despise her. 

« If true strength lies in a calm nothingness, 

Then idiots are all mighty men, I guess.’” 


128 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT, \ 


“ Modern aspirations,” he laughed. “Your verses 
have nothing to do with French or slang.” 

“ I know that ! I was thinking of our discussion, some 
few evenings since, about women using their talents.” 

“I give up! There is no use arguing with you, Miss 
Sidney. I am silenced.” 

“But ‘not convinced,’ I fear.” 

“ ‘ And, right or wrong, to have the latest word,’ ” 
was the parting quotation he sent after me, as I ran up stairs. 

Looking over the pages I have written, I see but little 
incident there. Yet, so far as they go, they form a true 
record of my life. After all, how much incident is there 
in any human existence? We can sum them up briefly: 
we live, love, and suffer. Our lives, in a great measure, 
are spent alone. There is a veiled chamber in every 
heart, in which sits the soul, where no one enters, which 
we would not open to any gaze save our own. Our his- 
tory is but a record of our own feelings. Trifles shape 
our lives; trifles, in appearance, change the whole cur- 
rent of our existence. And this, that I write, as Mon- 
taigne says, “is myself, my very being.” What is our 
life, our outward life, save the reflection of our inner self? 
And, unless “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but 
the truth” be spoken, the pen had best be laid aside. 

In the days of which I am now writing my chief mem- 
ories are of my conversations with Hugh Ralston. Our 
friendly discussions kept my mind on the alert. I could 
not but contrast him with Will Cameron. My fancy for 
him was over — I now viewed that in its proper light. 
Measuring him by a higher standard, of which he fell far 
short, I wondered at my own infatuation, fascination, 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


I29 

for such it was. A young girl’s first fancy seldom lasts : 
well that it is so ! The old truism — a woman never mar- 
ries her first love — has more meaning in it than we think 
for. Womanhood requires more than girlhood; what 
pleases eighteen displeases twenty-eight. Better a mo- 
ment’s pang than a life-long sorrow. 

I was not in love with Hugh Ralston. That was a 
thought which never crossed my mind. We were very good 
friends, though he was far more intimate with my mother 
than with me. She treated him as she would have done 
a son, had her own been spared ; and he gave her a re- 
spectful deference and confidence that, loving her as I 
did, was most gratifying to me. 

“He is like what your father was as a young man,” 
she said to me one day, and I knew she could give him 
no higher praise. “Iam glad to see .he is stepping, by 
degrees, into your father’s practice.” 

My dear mother ! I believe she was very happy in those 
days! How was it with me? I confess, I was getting 
tired of my quiet life. I had no reason to complain — 
I had nothing to do — but I wanted excitement. 

The days were coming, nay, they were already begun, 
when I was to learn that this very tranquillity was true 
happiness. My bark had, hitherto, been sailing in calm 
waters ; it was to pass over stormy seas, through difficult 
channels, before it would rest again in a safe haven. 

But I am anticipating. It is well the future is merci- 
fully hidden from our ken. Else, how would we bear 
the many trials of our lot? If to their endurance were 
added their anticipation, it would be too much for frail 
human nature to support. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


PAPER WALLS. 

I WAS very proud of my escort as, leaning on his arm, 
I entered Mrs. Cameron’s crowded parlors. It was 
the first large party I had ever attended, and was much 
larger than I had anticipated. I could scarcely, at first, 
distinguish who were present. After saluting our hostess, 
who stood resplendent in purple velvet, Dr. Ralston 
whispered to me : 

“ I shall have to depend on you to-night. This is my 
first introduction to Fairfield society.” 

“ It is my first large party,” I said, in the same tone. 
“Dr. Ralston, my daughter, Miss Cameron.” 

So I was left to the tender mercies of a crowd of young 
ladies, who immediately surrounded me. 

“You’ll introduce him, won’t you, Sidney?” — “Don’t 
forget me” — “He’s just splendid” — and so on. 

“I’ll do what I can,” I said to all. And, in the 
course of the evening, I succeeded in gratifying nearly 
all the anxious damsels. 

The crowd brought me, at last, near Meta Gray. I 
had scarcely seen her of late, and I asked her why she 
had been so unsocial. 

She laughed. “I might ask you the same question, 
Sidney. You ought to be careful how you throw stones. ’ ’ 
“Have you beep sick, Meta?” for I noticed she was 
unusually pale. 

130 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT . 


1 31 

“No, only worried.” 

“You worried! I wish I had as little to trouble me as 
you have ! * ’ 

“Don’t ask me,” impatiently. “Is Hugh Ralston 
here to-night? ” 

“ He is,” I replied. ' I was about to add the informa- 
tion that he had accompanied me, when Mr. Perkins 
came up. 

“Miss Gray, Miss Elliott, good evening. Are we not 
to have some music to-night? ” 

“We may oblige you later, Mr. Perkins,” Meta 
smiled. 

“ I do love music ! ’ ’ clearing his throat most unmusic- 
ally. “I would give anything if I could play and sing.” 

“You should have gone to a German school, where 
all are taught music,” I said. “If one has any taste that 
way, it is a pity not to cultivate it.” 

“I wish I could sing as well as Cameron does,” he 
went on. “Miss Gray, I had a miserable drive up to-day. ’ ’ 

“I wonder you take it so often,” she replied. 

“I get very tired of the country. It does well enough 
during the day, but the evenings are awfully dull. And this 
mild weather makes the roads very bad, ’specially the 
pikes ! my wheels sometimes sunk two feet in the mud ! ’ ’ 

“Pursuit of pleasure under difficulties ! ” I said. 

“It was very difficult for the horses. They know 
they ’ve got to go when I ’m behind them.” 

“ Nothing like a firm- hand for them,” Meta said, care- 
lessly. 

“ Can you give me the town-time, Miss Gray ? Really, 
I forget, sometimes, to set my watch.” 

“ I don’t carry mine to parties, Mr. Perkins.” 

Some one came up to ask her to sing. She was always 


132 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


obliging about this, as we generally are, liking to do any- 
thing we know we do well, and she smilingly assented. 
We had been standing near the piano. 

I shall not attempt again to describe her singing. To say 
that it silenced even Mr. Perkins is sufficient praise. But 
the song over, his flow of talk, very small talk, recom- 
menced. It is not worth recording; an occasional ‘ yes * or 
‘no’ was all that was necessary. His range was limited, 
himself, his horses, his farming, being his usual topics. 

Dr. Ralston had approached the piano to hear Meta’s 
song, and, after it was over, I was surprised to see him in 
apparently friendly conversation with her. They stood 
directly behind me, so that, if I had chosen, I could have 
heard every word. I paid no attention, however, till I 
heard my own name mentioned, as Meta slightly changed 
her position, so that I could see her face. It was not 
very honorable, I know; but, under cover of Lewis 
Perkins’ platitudes, I confess my curiosity proved too 
strong for me. 

“ So you are boarding with the Elliotts ! ” 

“ Yes,” very curtly. 

“How do you like it ? ’ 

“I have a very high regard for Mrs. Elliott.” 

“You will prove it, ere long, I presume, by making 
love to her daughter.” 

He made no reply. She looked at me, a long, furtive 
glance. I stood, to all appearance unconscious. This was 
a new phase in Meta’s character. 

“Well, is my supposition correct?” 

I listened anxiously for the reply. It came : 

“I thought you and Miss Elliott were friends.” 

“Friends? Yes, devoted friends. That is, so long as 
she is useful to me. You see, I am very plain with you.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


His tone was very scornful. “ You have need to be.” 

“ Aye, and I tell you plainly that you and Sidney are 
too intimate. We are friends , you know.” 

“I know what that means from you.” 

“Pah! Do you suppose I care for her? She is a good 
foil for me, and I find her accommodatingly useful. You 
need not fear for her, Hugh Ralston.” 

“ Meta Gray ! are you a woman?” 

She laughed — a low, ringing, musical laugh. “I am 
not a spirit, most assuredly. If you compare me with Sid- 
ney, I am not like her, I know.” 

‘ ‘ I know your old vanity. ’ ’ 

i 1 What ! because I know I am beautiful ! When even 
you acknowledge my power in that aspect ! ’ ’ 

“Aye ! the sight of a woman’s fair looks sometimes does 
make one forget her errors.” 

“Well — would you have me pretend to ignore what 
my mirror tells me every day? Stop, Hugh! You say 
Sidney is my friend. Shall I tell you why? Don’t you 
suppose I know the power of contrast — how my fair hair, 
gray eyes, and rosy cheeks show off to advantage by her ? 
Why don’t you win her heart, Hugh? She is so unsophis- 
ticated, ’t would be no hard thing.” She paused. 

“Miss Elliott is far above you, Meta.” 

“Ah! really! I warn you, Hugh Ralston. You may 
be her sworn knight, but let her once dare to cross my 
path — ” 

“Stop ! ” he said, in those low, firm tones. “Sidney 
Elliott is nothing to me — she has probably never wasted 
a thought on me. I have borne your insinuations long 
enough, Meta. Had I known you were here, I never 
would have come to Fairfield ; as it is, I tell you solemnly 
that if you dare harm Sidney Elliott, I will warn her 


12 


134 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


against you. The whole past, no matter what it costs me, 

I will reveal to her. You know how much reason you 
have to dread it.” 

‘ ‘ Would you tell her your share in those days?” she 
asked, bitterly. “You, who had not even my poor ex- 
cuse ! ’ * 

“I would ! ” firmly. “And you know I can keep my. 
word.” 

I had heard enough. Through the whole conversation 
I had kept up a desultory kind of talk with my companion. 
It was not honorable in me, I know, to have listened ; 
and now, that it was all over, I would have given worlds 
to recall those few minutes. 

“Mr- Perkins,” I said at last, “can we not find an- 
other seat?” 

“This draft is too much for you, Miss Elliott. You 
are fairly shivering. ’ * 

I was glad to have this excuse to change my position. 

I sat talking to Kate Strong — Mr. Perkins having long 
since deserted me to join Annie — when Dr. Ralston came 
up to us. 

“I am completely talked out, Miss Sidney. How in 
the world do you young ladies find so many topics ? ’ ’ 

“We picked up seven baskets out of the nine dropped 
into Eden, Dr. Ralston,” Kate playfully remarked. 
“You have heard that old story, I suppose, of the 
baskets of gossip?” 

He smiled. “They could not have fallen into better 
hands.” 

“You seemed to have plenty to say to Meta Gray,” 
Kate went on. “Both parties seemed mutually inter- 
ested. How is it, Dr. Ralston — have you, too, yielded to 
her charm?” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


135 

u Miss Gray and I are old acquaintances. Such gener- 
ally have enough to talk about.” 

“She is very lovely.” He bowed. “And very pop- 
ular here.” 

“Miss Sidney, you look tired. Can I get anything for 
you?” 

“I don’t wonder she is tired,” Kate said, before I 
could reply. “Poor child, she has had to talk to Lewis 
Perkins for the longest time ! enough to tire any one ! ” 

“Is he not entertaining?” 

“Oh! decidedly so. He told me, not long since, 
he had been reading a most interesting novel. It was 
called ‘David Copperfield’ — he supposed I was familiar 
with it — one of Scott ’s.” 

Even Dr. Ralston joined in the laugh which followed. 

“How can you, Kate!” I exclaimed, as soon as I 
regained my voice. “It is a wonder he could talk of 
anything but horses ! ’ ’ 

“That, and his industry! I used to believe in that, till 
I paid a visit in the neighborhood. He talked so much 
about his constant occupation, that I really thought he must 
be invaluable. It resolved itself into his sitting on the 
fence, a cigar in his mouth, watching his father’s work- 
men.” 

‘ ‘ I am afraid you are sarcastic, Miss Strong. ’ ’ 

“No,” I said, lightly. “Kate is trying to conceal her 
jealousy of Annie Cameron.” 

“Sidney, how dare you!” shaking her fan at me. 
“Annie is welcome to her conquest. I would not have 
him as a gift. ’ ’ 

“ * Sour grapes hang high ! ’ ” was my reply to this. 

“I hate proverbs, Sidney. Look there.” 

It was really to be an evening of surprises to me. I 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


136 

looked in the direction she indicated, and there stood — 
Will Cameron. He soon saw me. He hesitated for a 
moment; then, as I bowed, came forward to speak to me. 

It was rather embarrassing for both of us ; it being our 
first meeting since our last momentous interview. He was 
looking well ; his Western trip had burnt him brown as a 
berry; but there were lines on his forehead I had never 
seen there before. 

“ I did not expect to meet so many friends here to- 
night,” he said, as, after acknowledging his’ introduction 
to Dr. Ralston, a few courteous remarks had passed be- 
tween the two young men. ‘ 1 1 am home two weeks ear- 
lier than I expected.’ 

He did not linger long near our trio. . He was evidently 
uncomfortable in my presence. I pitied him : although I 
was not free from a certain degree of consciousness, I was 
the more self-possessed of the two. I watched him, un- 
noticed. I wanted to see how he and Meta Gray would 
meet. To all appearance, they were as friendly as ever. 
I saw, however, that while she tried, in every way, her 
old fascinations upon him, they had, in a great degree, 
lost their power. 

“Do you enjoy these scenes, Miss Sidney?” Dr. 
Ralston suddenly asked me, as some one called Kate 
away. “You are so lost in thought that you have com- 
pletely forgotten your position. ’ ’ 

“ I cannot say I do,” I replied. “Just as you spoke, 
I was wondering what would be the effect, if this were 
suddenly changed to the Palace of Truth.” 

He bit his lip. ‘ ‘ Not many of us could stand the test. ’ ’ 

“Or would we, if we could? Our skeleton, of which 
they -say there is one in each household, is best con- 
cealed.” 


•• 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


37 


“Yet they all look happy.” 

It was, indeed, a gay scene. Kate was at the piano, 
her willing fingers flashing over the keys, in the merry 
notes of a polka. The floor was filled with dancers, the 
girls’ light, airy robes contrasting well with the sober ha- 
biliments of the gentlemen. Meta, her fair face aglow 
with the exercise, her bright hair, like threads of gold, 
falling in graceful curls, her light draperies looped with 
scarlet, her favorite color, passed us at that moment. 
She shook her bouquet playfully at my companion, with 
a lovely smile. 

“ I am tired,” she said to her partner, as the next few 
minutes brought her near us again. “Sidney, may I 
share your seat ? ’ ’ 

I made room for her on the low ottoman which I occu- 
pied. I cannot say I was pleased to see her, nor did I 
make any great effort at conversation. 

“You are very silent to-night,” she said, at last. 
“ Why have you not been dancing? ” 

‘ 1 1 am not fond of the exercise. ’ ’ 

“ One would think you forty years old, Sidney, instead 
of twenty. You are uncommonly sober this evening. 
What has Dr. Ralston been saying to you ? ’ ’ 

“Trying to make myself agreeable,” he said, lightly. 

“I thought you two were having a nice, cosy time,” 
glancing from one to the other of us, through her half- 
closed eyelids. “Iam fairly sick of the nonsense I have 
heard talked to-night ; . one can weary of sweets.” 

“You never got many from me,” I said, yielding, as so 
often I had done before, to her fascinating manner. 

“I always prized you for your sincerity,” gayly. 
“ She is one of the few people, Dr. Ralston, who have 
the courage to scold me.” 

12* 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


138 

“ You were always very well able to take care of your- 
self. Miss Elliott, do you know it is getting late? Some 
of the party have already gone home. ’ ’ 

I shall not be sorry to follow their example,” I said, 
rising. ‘ ‘ Good night, Meta. ’ ’ 

“ I shall see you to-morrow, Sidney. Take good care 
of her, doctor.” 

I was only too glad to find myself once more in my quiet 
room. It had been a most uncomfortable evening to me. 
Meta was more of a puzzle to me than ever. She and Dr. 
Ralston, I thought, seemed afraid of each other. There 
was evidently some secret between them ; what, I could 
not divine. I thought over the conversation I had heard 
between them, till my head fairly ached. Meta’s insin- 
cerity to myself — the opinion she had so freely expressed 
about me — had pained me more than I can well tell. I 
had, it is true, at times, doubted her. Then my unex- 
pected meeting with Mr. Cameron ! I was thankful that 
was over. 

I should not have gone to Mrs. Cameron’s that evening 
had I known her son would have been home. As it was, 
I was not sorry that the meeting — which, moving as we did 
in the same circles, I knew I could not avoid — was over. 
Like many other things, it had been less difficult in reality 
than I had anticipated. It had convinced me of my in- 
difference. 

But what was the tie between Hugh Ralston and Meta 
Gray? Was it a secret? I could not think it — a crime ! 
Evidently both desired silence on the subject; and my 
cheeks burned painfully as I thought of the conversation 
I had overheard. Hugh Ralston’s words, mysterious 
though they were, had not changed my already high 
opinion of him. He was*, to all appearance, as much 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


139 


discomposed as I was by the events of the evening ; for 
I heard him, in his room above my own, pacing up and 
down restlessly,- and, to the sound of his measured tread, 

I finally fell asleep. 

He had gone out when I came down, rather late, the 
next morning. I did not see him till just before tea, 
when he came, for a moment, into the sitting-room. 

“ Miss Sidney, I have rather a strange request to make 
of you. Will you come to the office one moment? A 
little boy fell, a few moments since, on the pavement, cut- 
ting his forehead rather severely. The cut needs a stitch 
or two, and some one must hold the child. My assistant 
has gone home ; and though the mother is there, she is 
so nervous, she says, that 'she is perfectly useless. What 
in the world has a mother to do with nerves ? ’ ’ 

Part of this explanation was given as I followed him • 
across the hall to the office. It was not the first time I 
had been called in on similar occasions ; for my father 
was of opinion that a woman should be able to act, if 
necessary. 

The child’s forehead was soon attended ; no very 
serious injury any way — only a good deal of blood spilt, 
doing more harm to the boy’s clothes than anything 
else. The mother sat hiding her face till the brief ope- 
ration, a very simple matter, was over. 

“ How brave you are, Miss Elliott ! ” she said to me. 
“I wish I was; but the sight of blood does so unnerve 
me. I nearly fainted when I first saw Johnnie’s face.” 

“It don’t require much bravery,” I said, smiling. 
“You should try to control yourself.” 

“ I wish I could indeed. You should be a doctor’s 
wife, Miss Elliott.” 

It was a very trifling matter, to be sure ; but Hugh Ral- 


140 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


ston could not get over it. He spoke again on the sub- 
ject as we all sat together, later in the evening. 

“I am glad to see you, at least, are not troubled with 
nerves, Miss Sidney.” 

“I am afraid I should find them very troublesome 
companions,” I said. “I felt really sorry for that woman 
to-day.” 

“More than I did ! If she had chosen to exert her- 
self, she could have done all that was necessary. She 
should have had more self-command.” 

“I can give you a worse instance — in your own sex, 
too, Hugh,” my mother observed. “ A clergyman, in 
this town, too, refused, not long since, to visit one of his 
church-members, dying of small-pox, because he was 
afraid of the contagion.” 

“ He ought to have been put out of his profession ! ” 
Ralston exclaimed. “ There are three professions which 
require courage, moral as well as physical : a soldier’s, a 
clergyman’s, and my own ; and of the three, the last 
needs most.” 

“I cannot say much for that particular minister,” I 
said. “It seems to me that, like a soldier, a clergyman 
should go, unquestioning, where his duty calls him.” 

“ I wonder what the world would call a physician who 
would refuse his services in such a case ! He would be 
called a coward ; and he would deserve the name ! Yet, 
Mrs. Elliott, you know our life is no easy one. From 
the first steps it takes nerve. I have seen strong men faint 
in the dissecting-room, when they fearlessly would have 
marched to the very cannon’s mouth! not from fear — 
though there was danger there ; for the slightest scratch, 
the merest abrasion of the skin, in contact with that dead 
humanity, will cause death in one of its most horrible 


\ 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


141 

forms — but from the mere thought of using the knife on 
those motionless forms.” 

I shuddered. “Yet they become used to it.” 

“As to everything, in time. And sometimes it re- 
quires considerable courage to obey all the calls made 
upon us.” 

“Do you never hesitate,” I asked, “about going where 
you know there is danger of infection ? * ’ 

“Miss Sidney, you — Dr. Elliott’s daughter — to ask 
such a question ! I have no right to think of self in 
such a case.” 

“ Right ! ” my mother said, softly. 

“You think highly of your profession, I see.” 

“It is a first-rate one in which to prosecute the study 
of human nature; one learns more of that in a year’s 
practice than from a thousand books.” 

“Aye! because books only give you the surface,” I 
said. “ I never read a novel — and I confess I have read 
a good many — which gave a correct picture of life. 
You go behind the scenes.” 

“More than I like, sometimes. But you find good 
where you least expect it.” 

“Like the pearl in the oyster?” I asked mischiev- 
ously. 

He quoted, in reply : 

“ « Sweet are the uses of Adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.’ 

If you went among the poor, as I am compelled to do, 
you would be amazed to see what people can bear and 
have to endure ; and you would be surprised to see how 
many noble traits are displayed — how weak, frail women 


142 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


bear things which would make your blood run cold 
were I even to relate them.” 

“ We have always been noted for fortitude,” my mother 
said. “I have heard physicians themselves say women 
had more of that passive courage than men.” 

“Your friend of this evening, for instance,” I put in. 

He laughed. “It is to be hoped there are not many 
like her. Miss Sidney, are you disposed to try your 
skill at chess ? ’ ’ 

I was ; and the rest of the evening was devoted to that 
fascinating game. 

Hugh Ralston and I were fast becoming friends. But 
there was one point we never touched, one subject we 
never discussed ; and that was — Meta Gray. She was at 
our house a great deal in those days, coming there in the 
early evening. My mother, with whom she was a great 
favorite, would detain her. I sometimes wondered at 
Hugh Ralston’s manner to her. It was indescribable. 
Thoroughly polite and gentlemanly, for he could not be 
otherwise, he yet seemed indifferent to her many attrac- 
tions. Sometimes Mr. Merton would come for his niece ; 
then, at others, Hugh would escort her home, as a matter 
of course. Once or twice, returning home, I met them, 
walking together ; but, strange to say, though Meta still 
professed (I had learned the value of those professions) 
affection for me, and there was still a sort of intimacy be- 
tween us — the remnant, on my part, of habit — and though 
Dr. Ralston spoke freely enough to both my mother and 
myself on nearly every other subject, neither of them 
ever mentioned the other’s name. I soon learned to be 
equally silent. 

I was not naturally curious ; yet, like the gray parrot 
so often quoted, “ I thought the more.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


143 


“ I wonder if those two will not make a match,” my 
mother said, one evening, after Meta had left us. “ They 
would be a handsome couple.” 

I was silent. 

“ Sidney, I wonder if you will ever marry.” 

“ Me, mother ! I ’m in no hurry, unless you are anxious 
to get rid of me.” 

“ My dear girl, no. I would keep you with me as long 
as I can. But I should be sorry to see you always single : 
my own married life was so happy, ^that some day I hope 
to see you as happy in a home of your own.” 

“I am very happy as it is,” I said. ‘ 4 Mother, I am 
not afraid of being an old maid.” 

‘‘You can be just as useful in that sphere of life as in 
any other, Sidney; and I would not give you to every 
one.” 

“I shall require some one very charming,” I said, 
laughing. “Time enough yet, mother.” 

She smiled at my tone. “ I wish — ” she began. 

But at that moment the door opened. Hugh Ralston 
had returned, and my mother never finished her wish ; 
and I never thought to ask her. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A DISCOVERY, 


UMMER came, and with it days of almost unequalled 



heat. They began early in June. The sun, his rays 
unintercepted by a single cloud, poured them down upon 
us with an intensity equal, I imagine, to that he displays 
in the tropics. Evening brought no refreshment — mo 
coolness — the short summer nights were only more en- 
durable than the days. 

I had thought that my intercourse with Will Cameron 
was at an end. I had merely exchanged greetings with 
him at his sister’s party, at which he had so unexpectedly 
made his appearance ; and, judging by my own feelings, 
I should have thought he would have avoided me. 

However, I was mistaken. Meta, to all appearance, 
had lost her influence over him. He was polite to her 
when they met ; but, though she treated him as she had 
always done, he seemed proof against her many fascina- 
tions. 

I made no endeavor to renew our old intimacy. Pleas- 
ant though it had been while it lasted, its consequences 
had brought me too much discomfort for me to be de- 
sirous of its renewal. I knew myself wholly blameless, 
and I preferred that our paths, henceforth, should lie apart. 
There were other feelings involved — unacknowledged, 
because unsuspected ; which I learned later had greatly 
influenced me. 


144 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


145 


But I soon saw that, so far as lay in his power, Will 
Cameron was determined to ignore the past. It was not 
long before he had recommenced his visits. He had 
either a new song of which I only could do justice to the 
accompaniment, a book I would enjoy reading, or a piece 
of music he was sure I had not yet added to my collection : 
his excuses were as numerous as his visits. 

Sometimes I enjoyed them. Both Dr. Ralston and 
himself were men who had seen much of the world — 
men of intellect and refinement. But Cameron lost, while 
the other gained, by the comparison. It was the differ- 
ence between firmness and instability, strength and weak- 
ness. I watched them both closely, till I had formed, as 
I thought, an unprejudiced opinion of either. I shall not 
give my conclusions here. If the pages I have written 
have not already delineated these two characters with suf- 
ficient clearness, my time has indeed been wasted. 

Those evenings, then, that my mother, Hugh, Will 
Cameron, and I spent together, sitting, as we did, in the 
moonlight on the porch, were really pleasant. Long, 
friendly discussions — we seldom descended to gossip — 
filled up the time. 

They were pleasant to me ; yet I could not but see that 
Mr. Cameron would sometimes willingly have converted 
our quartet into a duo. I hoped this was not seen by 
the others, but it was only too perceptible to me. So far 
as lay in my powdfr, I was determined to avoid all refer- 
ence to the past. I gave him, in truth, no opportunity. 
So soon as our music was over, I would join the others : 
did he propose reading aloud, I was sure they would wish 
to share the projected pleasure. 

But a man who is bent on a certain purpose will gener- 
ally accomplish it. A day came when all my plans came 

13 


146 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


to naught, and the interview I had so long avoided was, 
in a manner, forced upon me. 

Dr. Ralston had gone out to visit a patient, and would 
not return till late — it was barely possible he might be 
detained all night. My mother, complaining of a slight 
headache, had retired early. And I, not caring to fol- 
low her example, had taken advantage of my solitude to 
spend the evening at the piano. 

I played on and on, forgetful of everything save my 
own music, when I heard a step on the porch ; and, a mo- 
ment later, Will Cameron stepped through the window 
opening down to the floor. 

“I heard your piano, and so came in,” he said, as I 
rose. “ Don’t get up, please. Play something for me.” 

I was only too glad to comply with his request ; but I 
could not play all the evening. “My fingers are tired,” 
I said, at last. “ What else can I do to entertain you ? ” 

“Come and talk to me, then. Don’t light the gas,” 
as I made a move in that direction. “It is a shame 
to lose such moonlight. Look out on the night, Miss 
Sidney.” 

I came to the window by which he was seated. It had 
been one of those fearfully hot days of which I have 
spoken, but this evening the temperature was delicious. 
Such a night as it was ! The moonlight, almost brilliant 
enough to read by, flooded everything with its soft radi- 
ance ; the trees, in all the beauty of their summer foliage, 
gently bowed in the light breeze which, passing over the 
rose-bushes now in the full luxuriance of their first bloom, 
came laden with sweet odors. There was no sound save 
the rustling of the leaves — a perfect stillnessx pervaded 
the scene. I made some few trifling remarks on the 
beauty of the evening. Mr. Cameron answered me at 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


14 7 

random. I soon found he was more intent on his own 
thoughts than attentive to external objects. 

“This is something like our old evenings,” he said, 
breaking from its stem one of the roses which grew against 
the house. “I believe this is the first time I have seen 
you alone since my return.’ * 

What could I say ! I certainly would not confess that 
this had been intentional on my part. I wisely kept silence. 

He turned to me abruptly. “ I may as well make the 
most of this opportunity. Sidney, I wrote to you from 
Pittsburg, on my way West ; did you receive my letter ? ” 

Still I was silent. 

He waited for my reply. “You will not speak? 
Silent ! I am answered. Why did you give me no 
reply?” 

“I did not think one necessary, Mr. Cameron.” I 
saw that I must answer. 

“Unnecessary! If I had not wished for a reply, I 
should not have written.” 

“What could I have said to you?” I asked. “Your 
note I did receive. Had I written, it would only have 
been to assure you of my sympathy with you in your dis- 
appointment ; and why need you have wished for that as- 
surance? You knew I felt for you, and blamed Meta.” 

“I do not want to talk of her,” he said, passionately. 
“That madness, infatuation — call it what you will — is 
over. She, herself, cured me of it most effectually, and 
I thank her for it ! What a world this would be, if there 
were many like her ! Even now, knowing her as I do, 
there are times when it needs all my resolution to avoid 
falling, against my own better judgment, under her influ- 
ence again ! ’ ’ 

“ I should be sorry to see that,” I said, gently. 


1 48 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“You need not fear it! I am too thoroughly dis- 
enchanted. I did not come here to talk of Meta Gray, 
however,” he went on, more calmly. “ That letter, hur- 
ried as it was, asked forgetfulness — forgiveness ! Sidney, 
how do I stand with you now — am I forgiven ? ’ ’ 

“I have nothing to. forgive,” I said, as calmly as I 
could. “The day we parted, it was as friends. We 
both made a mistake, Mr. Cameron. There is no need 
to recall the past. ’ ’ 

“You were not used to speak to me in that cold tone,” 
reproachfully. “I know you once loved me, and I was 
mad not to hold on to that love while it was mine. Sid- 
ney, by the recollection of that love I plead with you for 
its return. I am wiser than I was in those days — I see 
plainly what you are, what you can be, to me. I know 
now that I loved you, and you only — I cannot believe 
that you are wholly indifferent to me. Do you still hold 
me unworthy of your confidence ? ’ * 

“ I value your friendship — ” I began. 

“Friendship! I did not ask you' for that! What I 
want is this — if my words have not been plain enough !• 
I prize you now as I ought ; I know that, under your in- 
fluence, I can do much. Sidney, give me an object in 
life 5 let me feel I have you to labor for, to cheer me, 
and the devotion of a lifetime will be too little for me to 
give you in return.” 

My heart beat painfully. I could almost hear its pul- 
sations ; I thought they must be audible to my companion. 
His handsome face was upturned to mine ; his deep-blue 
eyes looked at me, searchingly, as he awaited my reply. 
For a moment, I was tempted to yield — to lay my hand 
in his, my head on that broad shoulder — to feel there 
was some one between me and the world. I looked out ; 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


I49 


\ 


the stars shone, calm and serene ; I heard only my own 
heart beating ; I forgot even the man who stood beside 
me — for in that brief moment I learned my own secret. 

“ I will not* even ask you to pledge yourself to me,” 
he went on. 4 ‘Only give me hope, Sidney. I know I 
do not deserve you, but if at some future day — ” 

“No, Mr. Cameron,” I said, hoarsely. “Let us drop 
this matter forever. I am sorry to give you this pain ; I 
would have spared both you and myself. Do not urge 
me, I entreat you.” 

“I see,” with an effort, “ I have forfeited your esteem.” 

“ Not so ! ” I said, eagerly. “ You have proved your- 
self more worthy of it than ever. Some day you will 
thank me for this.” 

“There is no hope for me, then. Well, I suppose I de- 
serve it.” His tone was harsh, but I knew it told of sup- 
pressed emotion. 

“ I hope yet to see you one of our leading men,” I 
said, lightly. “It is in you, and no one will rejoice more 
in your advancement than myself. ’ ’ 

‘“Yet you deny me the greatest stimulus I could 
have.” 

My face burned, but I was determined to proceed. 
“ Mr. Cameron, would you win an unloving wife? ” 

“Is it really so, Sidney? ” He caught my hand, look- 
ing intently into my face. I met his gaze unfalteringly. 
He released me, with a sigh. “ Aye, I must believe you. 
Then, indeed, I have no hope ! I will not ask you,” 
with an effort, “ what has wrought this change ; nor will 
I pain you further with unavailing solicitations : I See they 
are useless. Sidney ! though I am debarred the privilege 
I asked, I wish you all happiness ! ” 

He stood, for a moment, deeply affected. I was no less 

13* 


50 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


moved than himself, but I dared not show it. A moment 
more, and he was gone. 

I could not sleep that night. Did I regret what I had 
done ? Not for one moment ; but I could fully sympathize 
with my rejected lover. There was no triumph in my 
thoughts, no exultation in my feelings. I felt, as I think 
every true-hearted woman must feel under similar circum- 
stances, deep sorrow for the pain I had inflicted. It is 
no light thing for a man to offer to a woman’s acceptance 
all he has to give : his name, his heart, his honor ; no 
light thing to refuse these gifts, the most precious he can 
offer. 

I had, I know, hesitated for a moment. That moment 
was enough. It told me that, in pledging myself to Will 
Cameron, in spite of my early fancy for him, I should do 
injustice alike to him and to myself. I had no right, 
where he “ asked for bread, to give a stone ; ” no right, 
in return for a loving heart, ter give an unwilling hand. 

For, as that moment told me, I had at last met my 
master. The very depths of my heart were revealed to 
me. I knew that though I might, it was most probable I 
should, never lay my hand, a willing captive, in his; that 
I had found my fitting mate — who, I now knew, would 
be my first, my only love ! Not the fleeting, girlish fancy 
I had given Will Cameron; 

“ And tell me how Love cometh? 

Love comes, unseen, unsent ; 

And tell me how Love goeth? 

That was not Love which went,” 

but a deeper, truer feeling, which even in that moment I 
knew would last — part of my very self; a feeling 
founded on esteem, respect, admiration — the deep, un- 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


151- 

questioning love of a woman’s heart, for the man whom, 
above all others, she would choose. 

I had not lived in th£ same house with Hugh Ralston 
for these months without studying his character. I saw 
everything there to admire, nothing to blame. He truly 

“ Bore, without abuse, 

The grand old name of gentleman.” 

But I had never thought of love. The consciousness of 
it had come upon me, suddenly : in that moment when I 
had stood looking upon the eternal stars — the calm eyes 
of heaven — my heart, through its painful beatings, had 
whispered to me — I could have almost said I heard the 
words — “You love Hugh Ralston; and, while your 
heart is his, how dare you give your hand to another? ’’ 
That moment had saved me. It told me I had better 
pass through life solitary, alone,, than wear a chain, even 
though it were gilded ! For what is a loveless marriage 
save a galling chain — enforced duty, but penal servitude ? 
I was content ; but the knowledge of my own feelings 
made me only the more.. deeply sympathize with the 
young man who had just left me. 

I dared not think of the future, except that my path lay 
plainly before me. It might lead up the ‘ * hill Adversity ’ ’ 

— the way might be hard to my feet — I could only fol- 
low it, uncomplaining. But it was not without a pang 
that I thought, in all human probability, that woman’s dear- 
est, sweetest career was now closed to me — that I should 
never know the tender, protecting love of a husband ; 
never be mistress of a home ; never feel in my heart that 
purest, holiest of all affections — the only unselfish love ' 

— that of a mother for her children. I would not think 
of this — I tried to banish it from my mind. 


152 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


4 ‘There is no cross so heavy it cannot be borne — no 
trial which we are not given strength to bear. And if 
woman’s humbler, happier lot be denied me, I will take 
what comes, patiently.” 

So, with this resolution, I rose the following morning. 
All through that day, too, why, I could not tell, ran in 
my mind the refrain of Kingsley’s ballad, in. Meta’s 
plaintive tones, as she had sung it the night of the concert : 

“ For men must work, and women must weep, 

And the sooner ’t is over, the sooner to sleep.” 

One or two days later, I was in one of the principal 
book-stores of our city ; it was crowded with customers — 
among them, Mrs. Cameron. While I waited for some 
one to wait on me, she came up to speak to me. 

“ Good evening, Miss Sidney. A pleasant evening.” 

“Very pleasant, after the excessive heat.” 

“ It is very pleasant, indeed. Do you know you must 
congratulate me ? ’ ’ 

“On your looking so well, Mrs. Cameron?” I said, 
carelessly. 

“ No, indeed. Can’t you guess ? Annie’s engagement 
to Mr. Perkins.” 

“ I suppose you are very much pleased,” I said, as cor- 
dially as I could. “ How you will miss her ! I suppose 
it will be a brief engagement.” 

“ So I fear ! ” her smiling face contradicting her tone. 
“It is not very delightfufto lose one’s olive-branches.” 

“ But you gain by it, Mrs. Cameron.” 

“True, Miss Sidney; and one must resign themselves 
to the loss in consideration of the gain.” 

“ « My son ’s my son till he gets him a wife. 

My daughter’s my daughter all her life.’ 

Console yourself with that, Mrs. Cameron,” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


*53 


“I wish my son would ‘get him a wife,’ ” she said, 
more earnestly than before. “I’m afraid he is going to 
live single, since he and Meta don’t fancy one another.” 

I made no reply 

“ I would have liked that match,” she continued. “ In 
point of family and fortune he could not have done better. 
You know, Miss Sidney, it would not do for Will to marry 
anybody. ’ ’ 

I bowed, wondering to myself what she would have 
said had she known what a narrow escape she had made 
from saluting me, the poor music-teacher, as Mrs. Wilford 
Cameron. Would I have come under the designation 
“anybody? ” 

“You see, with Will’s prospects, he ought to marry 
very well — some one I can approve of. ’ ’ 

One of the obsequious clerks at that moment presented 
himself: “ Could he wait on Miss Elliott? ” 

Miss Elliott was very glad to bid Mrs. Cameron good 
evening. “Come and see Annie; she will be glad to 
have you congratulate her.” 

‘ ‘ Thank you ; ’ ’ and I turned to make my purchases. 
They were very simple, only a few quires of paper, and I 
left the store. 

I met Annie and Kate on my way home, and stopped 
to congratulate the former. She was very animated — 
quoting Mr. Perkins constantly, and flourishing her left 
hand, on which she wore a heavy gold 'ring, wickedly re- 
minding me, in its size and thickness, of the substantial 
donor. 

“It ought to be your turn next, Sidney,” she said, as 
we parted. “Or do you intend to take us all by surprise 
some day ? ’ ’ 

“Just you wait, Annie,” Kate answered. “Sidney 
and I intend to astonish the natives some fine day.” 


154 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“Ah!” in all the serene dignity of engaged young- 
ladyhood. “ Don’t wait too long, girls. One needs ex- 
citement in this quiet town.” 

“You can afford to say so, Annie; as your time and 
thoughts are now fully occupied. Good night. I shall 
expect an invitation when the happy event comes off. ’ ’ 

I had for some time, as I suppose most girls do at some 
period of their life, kept a journal. Not regularly; it was 
a rambling, disconnected sort of chronicle ; but, such as 
it was, it has materially aided me in this record. Look- 
ing over it now, I recall circumstances I had almost for- 
gotten. I live over those bygone days. I remember, 
almost word for word, long conversations, and even the 
varying aspect of the days. But about this time I became 
disgusted with my diary. So long as it was limited to a 
mere statement of facts and actions, so well and good ; 
but for the past few months, since I had been living a new 
life, that of feeling — and my journal but too faithfully 
portrayed it — I found I was too fully carrying out the 
advice of the ancient sage, “Know thyself;” and, dis- 
satisfied with the knowledge I was acquiring, as I think 
we all are when we begin to understand our own nature, 
I laid the book aside. 

But I missed my silent confidant. Reticent I had al- 
ways been to an unusual degree. Deeply as I loved my 
mother, I had never been able to speak very freely to 
her; and I had no intimate friend — none, at least, to 
whom I would have been willing to speak on such subjects 
as of late had filled the pages of my diary. The thoughts 
which I could no longer inscribe there, must somewhere find 
utterance — they would have expression ; and I did what I 
had never thought possible — began to try my powers of 
composition. I began a novel, more to occupy my 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


155 


thoughts than from any other motive : not for want of 
occupation ; for my music-lessons filled the day, my even- 
ings were spent with my mother, Dr. Ralston always join- 
ing us when it lay in his power ; and the only time I had 
for writing was the daily half-hour I had of late, just be- 
fore retiring, given to my journal. 

But I was not satisfied with my attempt. I wrote and 
rewrote the first few chapters, and even when I had done 
my best, I was not content. Still I persevered, until I 
had written, I suppose, about twenty or thirty pages. 
Circumstances then occurred which induced me to lay 
aside my pen, only to be resumed at a later period. 

The days went on, each one bringing its own round, its 
own task. Almost before I knew it, my vacation came. 
I did not welcome it this year as I had done before. Not 
that my occupation was so very delightful to me, but I 
dreaded the fact of my having nothing to do. To pre- 
vent this, I made plans for every hour in the day. So 
much time I would give to my pen, so many hours to my 
piano. My garden, now in its full beauty of bloom, 
should receive its full share of attention ; I would read ; 
and the evenings should go on as before. I would enter 
more into society ; in a word, I would do everything in 
my power to escape from myself. 

I do not think that any one suspected my feelings, my 
restlessness and discontent. I know that my mother never 
did ; though, living as we did constantly together, one 
might have thought she would have seen that I was 
changed. 

I scarcely knew myself. The year which had opened 
for me with such bright prospects, as I thought, found 
me, ere it was much more than half gone, greatly altered. 
From the proud, sensitive girl, I had become the serious, 


156 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


thoughtful woman. I had learned, as all women must 
learn some time or other, better early than late, that 

“ Much must be borne which it is hard to bear, 

Much given away which it were sweet to keep.” 

Weeks passed, with nothing to mark them. I saw little 
of Mr. Cameron, save a passing bow in the street. I 
heard he was, just now, very attentive to his business. 
Annie was busy preparing for her approaching marriage. 
Meta came occasionally to see me ; more, I imagined, for 
the sake of meeting Hugh, than for any love of me. I 
did not want to be uncharitable, but I could not help 
the thought. She evidently liked him — would he pluck 
the flower so plainly, I thought, within his grasp ? 

I have said these weeks were without incident. A 
change was coming — events, one after the other, were to 
come crowding into my life. I did not know it ; but even 
then, influences were at work, producing circumstances 
which were to control my whole future. 

So, like travellers in a new country, we follow paths 
blindly, unknowing whither they may lead us. It may 
be through fertile plains, or sandy deserts. Who knows? 


CHAPTER XX. 


WHAT CAME OF THE STORM. 

M ISS Sidney, do you feel disposed to take a ride this 
fine morning ? or are you too much interested in 
your book to be willing to leave it? ” and a handful of 
rose-leaves fell on the pages open before me. 

I had been sitting, quietly reading, in a very comfort- 
able arm-chair, when I was thus interrupted. 

I threw aside my book. “ Who gave you leave to tres- 
pass among my flowers? ” 

“Now, don’t scold, if you please! I could not resist 
the temptation of pulling some roses, overblown too, 
with which to disturb your studies ; in which, by the way, 
you did not seem particularly interested.” 

“What are you doing here at this hour of the morn- 
ing? I thought you were safely away, among your pa- 
tients.” 

He shook his head comically. “ Fairfield and my pa- 
tients are unusually healthy this morning. Like Othello, 
"my occupation’s gone.’ I have a few hours’ leisure; 
won’t you share them with me ? My buggy is at the door, 
and I am your most obedient.” # 

I glanced at my dress, a white wrapper. “ Can you 
wait a few moments ? ’ ’ 

“ Not for you to change your dress. I give you five 
minutes to don hat and gloves. ’ ’ 

I ran up stairs, caught up a light shawl, put on my hat, 
14 *57 


58 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


and drew my gloves on as I came down. Dr. Ralston 
was walking up and down the piazza, his watch in his 
hand. 

“ You had just half a minute to spare. If you had not 
been down in time! Come, jump in. Mrs. Elliott,” as 
my mother appeared in the door, “we are going to run 
away. ’ ’ 

“ Come back in time for dinner, if you please. I 
hope you’ll have a pleasant dyive.” 

It was — very pleasant. The horse, a good trotter, went 
easily along the smooth roads ; the low, easy, physician’s 
carriage rolled rapidly on, the very perfection of motion. 
August though it was, it was more like a day in June,, 
when, as the poet sings, “if ever, come perfect days,” 
and this sweet summer-day was among those “perfect 
days.” 

We drove along, through green lanes, past comfort- 
able farm-houses, by the banks of the winding creeks; 
along the fields where the harvest was going on ; far away 
from the town, of which, occasionally, we caught a 
glimpse, as the windings of the road brought us at times 
to some elevated spot, from whence we could see Fair- 
field, its white steeples pointing to the clear, blue sky, its 
houses embedded in a mass of green — a city among hills. 
We talked together gayly, carelessly — of books, of city 
and country life. We discussed many topics that pleasant 
morning. 

“ Do you know it is somewhat late, Miss Sidney ?” Dr. 
Ralston said, finally, looking at his watch. “ We shall 
be late for dinner as it is ; so our pleasant drive must ter- 
minate. Some day we will come on another exploring 
expedition.” 

He turned the horse’s head homewards as he spoke. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


*59 

The animal, as those sensible creatures always do, knew 
he was going home, and he trotted on as rapidly as ever. 
The distance lessened swiftly under the regular motion of 
those flying feet, and we were soon within a mile of 
Fairfield. 

There we paused to admire the view. We were higher 
than the town, which lay at our feet, and we both involun- 
tarily exclaimed at the beauty of the scene. Dr. Ralston 
was an ardent lover of nature, and, glancing round, his 
quick eye soon discerned a squirrel perched on a tree 
overhanging the road. 

“Look at that fellow, Miss Sidney. Will you hold the 
lines a moment while I go and see if I can find his nest? 
I am as bad as any boy after such matters. You need not 
be afraid of the horse — he is used to standing.” 

“And you can bring me some of those flowers,” I 
said, pointing to a cluster of bright yellow blossoms grow- 
ing near the fence which enclosed the little wood by 
which we had stopped. There are not many woods in 
the vicinity of Fairfield ; land there is too valuable to be 
left uncultivated. “ I want to see what they are.” 

“Very well,” getting out of the carriage as he spoke. 
“ I’ll not be many minutes.” 1 

And off he went into the wood ; but he was gone longer 
than I had anticipated. He came back at last, very 
slowly. 

“ There are your flowers, Miss Sidney; but Mr. Squir- 
rel has brought me into trouble.” 

He laid the flowers on my lap as he spoke, and I no- 
ticed that he was very pale. 

“ What is the matter?” I asked, hurriedly. 

“Nothing very serious,” trying to smile; “only a 
sprained wrist, which is and will be very painful.” 


l6o SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 

“ How did you manage to injure yourself in those few 
moments?” I said, as, following his directions, I hastily 
bandaged the injured wrist — the right one, too — with my 
handkerchief ; and with his, being larger, made a sling. 

“Trying to do one of my old boyish feats — to swing 
myself to the ground from a tree I had climbed after the 
squirrel. I used to do it, years ago — I had forgotten I 
was heavier now. I did the thing, but here’s the pen- 
alty.” 

He managed to get into the buggy. 

“The next thing is to get home. You will have to 
drive, being mistress of ceremonies now. Are you equal 
to the position? You see I am powerless.” 

He was, indeed, very pale, and evidently in pain. 

“I can manage it,” quietly. “Fortunately, we have 
not far to go.” 

“I believe I had rather have broken my arm at once,” 
he said, as we drove up to the door. “ These things are 
more painful, and take longer to heal. Miss Sidney, I am 
not sorry to be home ; this arm needs firmer bandaging 
than we have given it. ’ ’ 

My mother came to meet us, ready to scold for our 
delay. She exclaimed at seeing the bandaged arm. A 
few words proved sufficient explanation. « 

“You will come right into the house,” as Dr. Ralston 
stated his intention of seeking a doctor. “ No, Hugh, 
you can send your boy to Dr. Kennedy’s, and you must 
come in and wait.” 

“ Dear Mrs. Elliott, the time will seem twice as long.” 

They kept up their friendly-dispute some few moments. 

“ Mother,” I said, “don’t you know ‘a wilful man 
must have his way ? ’ Let him go ; he might have been 
at the doctor’s and back by this time.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT . 


161 


But Dr. Kennedy’s passing at that moment stopped the 
discussion. Ralston called him, and the two M. D.’s fol- 
lowed us into the house, where the injured member soon 
received the necessary attention. 

“Not a very pleasant adventure, Ralston,” Dr. Ken- 
nedy said, as, the brief work over, they came into our sit- 
ting-room. “ You will have to submit to the loss of your 
arm for a few weeks ; but you will have two first-rate 
nurses, and the more quiet you keep the better.” 

“ The hardest prescription you could have given him, 
doctor,” my mother said, laughing. “Tranquillity is 
perfect punishment to him.” 

Dr. Kennedy smiled. “ I leave the case in your 
hands, Mrs. Elliott. You will have an obstinate patient, 
as I know by experience — witness his conduct in Brown’s 
case. ’ ’ 

Brown being the brakesman whose limb the said obsti- 
nacy had saved. 

“You acknowledged that I was right there, Kennedy.” 

“You had the best of that business. I am glad I hap- 
pened to be passing this morning. Anything I can do for 
you, Ralston, I shall be glad to do. Good morning, 
ladies.” 

Hugh proved, as Dr. Kennedy — who, by the way, was 
one of our leading physicians — had said, a very obstinate 
patient. He would go out, would exert himself, and the 
consequence was that he only suffered the more. His 
wrist, at times, gave him intense pain, and finally he had 
to resign himself to keeping quiet. 

“ I don’t think I shall try gymnastics again in a hurry,” 
he said to me one morning, as we sat together. “It don’t 
pay, as my arm most forcibly reminds me.” 

But some of those mornings, in spite of the suffering 
14 * 


162 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


that unlucky sprain occasioned, were very pleasant. I 
could almost have thought I was living over my last vaca- 
tion. Hugh Ralston, however, was far superior to my 
former companion. We read together, but it was no longer 
only poetry which filled the time ; that was read, but 
only as a relaxation. We read Carlyle, in all his quaint, 
peculiar English — an affectation, as Dr. Ralston called it, 
and at which he pretended to grumble, though at heart 
he liked it — De Quincy, and some of the beautiful 
writings of our own Irving. But the pleasantest parts of 
those mornings were the long talks into which we would 
fall, my mother, herself a woman of no small abilities, 
always taking part in them. We learned to know each 
other well in those days. 

I had one morning been reading Hale’s strange tale, 
which has probably gained more faith in its truth than 
any other fictitious narrative I know of — “ The Man with- 
out a Country. ’ ’ That evening I spoke of it. 

It had been a gloomy, sultry day, late in August ; no 
sun, only light, gray clouds floating near the earth ; no 
breeze, not even enough to move the light, drooping 
branches of the willow-trees. Towards evening, how- 
ever, the clouds thickened, the gray fleeciness changed 
into a heavier, darker mass, and by the time the twilight 
B came — earlier than usual on account of the veil of clouds 
obscuring the sky — the rain was falling, not slowly nor 
gently, but in hard, plashing drops ; while the only sound 
in the stillness of nature was the low muttering of distant 
thunder — the only light through the fast-growing gloom 
the faint flashes of lightning along the horizon. 

“What were you so intent upon this morning?’’ Ral- 
ston asked me, as, with a half sigh, I turned from the 
window, where, for some minutes, 1 had stood. 


SIDNE r ELL 10 T T. 


163 


“ ‘ There is no light in all the heaven, 

Not the pale light of stars ’ — 

so you may as well come and sit down, and tell me what 
book so interested you that you neither saw nor heard 
me, though I stood near you for almost ten minutes.” 

* 4 An old number of the ‘ Atlantic,’ ” I replied. “ There 
was an article in it which greatly interested me — ‘The 
Man without a Country.’” 

“ The ‘Atlantic ’ has some good things in it occasion- 
ally. I have read the article you mention — it is a queer, 
fantastic production.” 

“ I scarcely think those are the right adjectives for you 
to apply ; they suit Poe’s tales better. This, I think, is 
the saddest story I ever read.” 

“ It is well written, too. I accept your correction, 
Miss Sidney; even the name of the hero, Nolan — no 
land — has meaning.” 

“I never thought of that,” I said, candidly. “I 
think what I most noticed was the fact of his having no 
ho?ne. To me there is no sadder thought.” 

“Home — those four letters have a wide meaning. 
They include all that makes life most precious and most 
desirable.” 

“Did you ever think,” I asked, “that the French, 
though their language has so many varied forms of ex- 
pression, have yet no word to express ‘home’ ?” 

“Aye; and it only goes to prove their light, volatile 
character. The politest nation in the world have no word 
to express the most sacred spot on earth.” 

“ Home, sweet home — there’s no place like home ! ” 

He smiled at my rather hackneyed quotation. 

“And the writer of that old song was a wanderer all his 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT . 


164 

life. He had no home, though he who could so well tell 
of its pleasures, fully deserved to enjoy them. What did 
he find?— a grave on a foreign shore; not even a resting- 
place in his native land ! * ’ 

We were both silent. The thunder came nearer and 
nearer, the lightning flashes grew more and more vivid — 
the storm without was at its height. 

Ralston got up and paced slowly up and down the 
room. “I have never told you, Miss Sidney, how I 
have valued being in your home — or what it has been to 
me. I did not know how I valued it till the last few 
weeks. This,” touching his arm as he spoke, 4 ‘has 
opened my eyes to many things ; and now I may have to 
give it all up.” 

“Are you going to leave Fairfield?” 

He took no notice of my question. Stopping his walk, 
he came and stood near me, one arm resting on the 
mantel — his hand, in the gesture I well knew told of ‘anx- 
iety, smoothing the mustache shading his lip. 

“Like all men, I have dreamed of a home of my 
own — a home with a wife, to make it a small piece of 
heaven. Sidney, it rests with you if these dreams are to 
be realized.” 

“ I do not know,” he went on, his voice trembling, 
very different from his usual firm tones, “that I amusing 
the right words — I never before asked any woman to be- 
come my wife. I do not promise to make you happy, 
Sidney ; I cannot insure that to you ; but what man can 
do to that end I will do. You are more to me than I 
dare to think: it all ends in this — I lave you ! ” 

What could I say? Like many a woman before, what 
he was to me, I well knew; I had never thought what I 
might be to him. He was so far above me, that the idea 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


165 

that he could love me was something I could not realize. 
I could not speak, though I would have given the world 
for words — but they failed me. I could only bury my 
face in my hands. 

“So you can give me nothing in return,” he said, after 
a moment’s pause, during which I felt his eyes were upon 
me. would have spoken before, but I feared this 
result. Well — it must be borne ! ” 

But I had found my voice at last. He had turned from 
me and bowed his head on his hand. I touched his arm, 
laying my hand lightly on it. He looked up, his face 
working with strong emotion. 

“I am not worthy of you,” I said, my face burning 
with blushes ; ‘ ‘ but such as I am — ’ ’ 

I never finished the sentence. There was no need — 
we understood each other. 

We sat, till late, in sweet communion. I was perfectly 
happy. The prize for which I had so longed was at last 
within my grasp — no fear of its turning to dust and ashes 
in my hands. 

“My mother,” I said at last; “I had nearly forgotten 
her ! What will she say to this? ” 

He laughed gayly. “Do you think I would have 
spoken to you, Sidney, living as we do in the same house, 
without her consent? She knew this weeks ago; and I 
had, as she expressed it, her unqualified good wishes.” 

During all this the loud thunder-claps had, at intervals, 
shaken the house. Hugh had hardly spoken the last 
words when one, more violent than any of the preceding, 
seemed to roll directly over our heads. I started vio- 
lently. 

“Hugh, listen ! I am almost tempted to fear this is an 
evil omen ! Can it foretell our future life ? ’ ’ 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 66 

“Nonsense! Sidney, the storm is over. If you are 
superstitious, look out on the night. It promises fair. * ’ 

He drew me gently to the window as he spoke. He 
was right, the storm was over. The clap which had so 
startled me was its last effort. A light breeze had sprung 
up, driving the clouds from the sky, and they were swiftly 
disappearing. One by one the stars had come out, till 
the heavens were thickly bespangled with their twinkling 
radiance; the air was full of a sweet “dewy freshness,” 
and all was peace and tranquillity. The war of the ele- 
ments was over. 

“Take my augury instead of your own, Sidney,” Hugh 
said to me, as we stood side by side. “All is calm be- 
tween us now, like the night we are looking upon ; and 
if storms should come, as come they will in every human 
life, we will breast them together. You helping me, I 
helping you, we will go on together — each the other aid- 
ing. Are you content to view it as I do?” 

I was — and after a few more words our interview was 
over. 

My sleep that night was sweet. Dreamlessly the hours 
of the night passed away; and when I awoke in the 
morning, refreshed, it was with a sense of all-pervading 
happiness. Nature, bright and cheerful after the storm, 
seemed almost to sympathize with my joy. I lingered in 
my room, loath to leave the sweet fancies that hovered 
around me there. I thought of Hugh — my Hugh : how 
natural that seemed already ! I tried to picture to myself 
the glad future that his words had promised to me. I 
could hardly realize my own happiness — yes, the long 
struggle for self-control was over. Heart and head were 
no longer at variance. 

When I came down stairs I found my mother and Hugh 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 67 


standing together awaiting me. I had thought I should 
feel embarrassed at meeting them, but I did not. As col- 
lectedly as I ever did in my life I walked into the room, 
to my mother’s side, just in time to hear her say, as she 
passed her arm around me : 

“There is no one, Hugh, to whom I would more will- 
ingly give my child than to you. She has been a good 
daughter ; she will be a good wife. I am the gainer : I 
have two children now. You cannot seem more like my 
own son than you do now, Hugh.” 

It was a happy trio that gathered around our breakfast- 
table that morning. A silent party it was — but our deep- 
est, holiest feelings are the last to express themselves in 
words. For 

“ It is with feelings as with waters : 

The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb.” 

“I cannot realize it, mother,” I said, after Hugh 
very unwillingly had left us for his daily attendance on 
his patients. “ I cannot believe it : it seems like a dream ! 
And oh ! how little I deserve it all ! ” 

“ I have no fears for your future, Sidney. It is in safe 
hands.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 


HALCYON DAYS, 


HE few remaining weeks of my vacation glided 



JL rapidly by. Such happy weeks ! Dr. Ralston was 
with me constantly. He lost nothing in this close inter- 
course ; every day only showed me something more to 
admire in his noble character — something to give him a 
new claim on my esteem. 

What had become of all my doubts regarding him and 
Meta Gray ? They were completely forgotten, as though 
they had never existed. I had such full confidence in 
the man of my choice, such perfect reliance on his honor 
and worthiness, that my naturally suspicious nature seemed 
changed — a change strange even to myself. To his will 
I yielded my own ; I submitted myself wholly to his 
guidance. I gave up to him as never before had I done 
to any human being. *• 

I do not think that even in those days he guessed how 
much I loved him. I would scarcely confess it to myself. 
Naturally undemonstrative, the very strength of my feel- 
ings made me only the more anxious to conceal them. 

“I want you to give me perfect confidence, as I do 
you,” he had said to me one day. “ Without it, there 
can be no happiness in married life. You are inclined 
to be suspicious and jealous, Sidney: you should strive 
to overcome both.” 

“Have I ever shown either feeling to you? ” 


1 68 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


169 

“No, but 'they exist, and, when you least expect it, 
will show themselves. Don’t look at me so reproach- 
fully, dear. I only want to warn you. If anything trou- 
bles you, come to me: ask me what you will, you will 
only hear the truth from me. A trifle, unexplained, 
grows at times into a mountain of mistrust. Let it not be 
so with us.” 

“I do not think anything would make me doubt you,” 

I said earnestly. 

“I hope nothing ever will. Yet, under some circum- 
stances, a little thing you might consider not worth men- 
tioning, it would seem so unimportant; under others you 
would brood over. I do not say you will do it, Sidney : 

I only ask you, no matter what it costs you, no matter 
what it may cost me to answer you, to come to me. I have 
no fear,” laughing at my very serious expression, “of 
any cross-examination to which you may see fit to subject 
me. I only ask you not to judge me unheard.” 

He read my character better than I did myself. 

We had decided that the engagement should remain a 
secret as long as it was possible. It concerned no one, , 
and we had no one to consult. It was not necessary that 
the busy world should be admitted to our privacy. I 
think both Hugh and I felt it would have been almost a 
desecration to parade our happiness before others. My 
mother approved of our intentions. It was very different 
from the enforced secrecy attending my first engage- 
ment — a secrecy I had always felt had something disgrace- 
ful in it, and to which I had most unwillingly submitted. 
Hugh had no relatives who were likely to interfere, and 
we preferred that for the present the world should know 
nothing of our affairs. So I was, for a while, to go on 
with my music-lessons, partly that our secret might be the 

15 


7 ° 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


better kept, partly because I should need *the money I 
would thereby earn for the necessary preparations. 

It would not, however, be long a secret. Hugh ob- 
jected to long engagements, and my mother agreed with 
him. I did not like them myself. I knew how “hope 
deferred made the heart sick ; ’ ’ how those long, useless 
delays wore on the temper, imbittering and souring it, 
till all the first freshness and sweetness of affection sub- 
sided into a species of quiet regard ; and I did not object 
when Hugh pleaded for an early day. 

There was, in truth, no necessity for any delay. But 
the time which he and my mother fixed upon, for I left it 
in her hands, was earlier than I had anticipated. Hugh 
expected to visit Illinois on business in November — he 
wished me to accompany him, but my mother objected to 
this. He would not return till late in December, and she 
thought a long journey at that season of the year would 
be too much for me. So we were to be married at 
Christmas. 

I had wished to wait at least till spring, but my wishes 
were, as I have said, overruled. After all, the marriage 
would make no essential difference ; we wohld still oc- 
cupy our old home, only my mother would resign the 
housekeeping to me. She had, at first, spoken of leaving 
us, but neither Hugh nor I would even listen to this for a 
moment. 

“ My home is yours, Mrs. Elliott, so long as I have 
one. If I am to be your son, you must allow me all a 
son’s privileges. Besides, Sidney could not do without 
you, nor, for that matter, could I either ; so never let me 
hear another word on that subject. Dear Mrs. Elliott, you 
want to make me appear very selfish — first, to take your 
daughter from you, and then send you from your home ? 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 7 


Never ! I hope always to have you in our household, its 
most honored member.” 

So that matter was settled to the satisfaction of all par- 
ties. Much as my mother was pleased with my choice, 
I believe it would have broken her heart had I been com- 
pelled to leave her ; and not even for Hugh Ralston would 
I have done it. I loved him only the better for his good- 
ness to her. 

I did not expect to make any very great preparations— 
I had neither the time nor the money requisite. At 
Hugh’s request I was to lay aside my mourning, which I 
felt myself was unsuited to a bride. What I needed, my 
mother and I, in my few leisure moments, made ; laying 
each garment, as it was completed, in drawers fragrant 
with the dying breath of rose-leaves, gathered, as was 
our wont, through the summer — the old-fashioned dam- 
ask rose, fragrant above all others. 

There were many sweet thoughts stitched into my sim- 
ple wardrobe — sweet and pleasant fancies. A song of 
peace ever sounded in my ears ; and were I for a moment 
discouraged, one glance at the plain gold ring I wore, 
Hugh’s only gift, drove away all painful thoughts. That 
little circle on my finger bounded all my life. 

“ I will not give you jewels now, Sidney, nor load you 
with presents. It is a custom I greatly dislike; as if 
affection could be bought or strengthened with gifts. 
Time enough for that some future day. ’ ’ 

And I did not want presents. I was satisfied with what 
I already possessed — the undivided affection of a noble 
heart. 

We spent every moment together that we could. They 
were not many, for Hugh’s practice was larger than ever, 
and I had resumed my duties with my pupils. These 


172 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


duties, I expected, would finally end in December, and 
the Christmas holidays would be the beginning of a new 
life for me. 

A new life ! It promised to be a happy one. 

“ Do you know you are looking remarkably well ?’ ’ 
Mrs. Merton said to me, one day. “ Why, you have quite 
a color ! But why do we see so little of you now-a-days ? 
Are you giving up the world in your old age ? ’ * 

“Dear Mrs. Merton! I am kept so busy just now! 
After a while I shall have more leisure than I have at 
present. ’ ’ 

“Your work don’t seem to hurt you, any how,” patting 
my cheek. “Meta says she never sees you, either : you 
should not keep so much to yourself.” 

I knew I was looking better. Happiness had brought 
the color to my cheek and a light to my eye. Even Hugh 
noticed the change. 

“You are not my pale-faced, demure Sidney of last 
summer. She was a frail, delicate damsel ; this is a rosy 
country-maiden. I wonder if I am asleep or awake.” 
My answer to this was a pretty severe pinch of his arm. 

‘ ‘ Stop ! child ! I have some feeling left ! I guess I must 
be awake, though how do I know but you are a fairy ? 
Old stories say they pinch those who offend them.” 

“Have you found out yet if you are awake?” I 
saucily inquired. 

‘ ‘ Is this a specimen of the honor and obedience you are 
to promise me some of these days ? I shall have a most 
submissive little wife ! How will it be, Mrs. Ralston ! ” 

I ran out of the room. I heard him laugh, not discon- 
tentedly ; he knew any reference to that always made me 
beat a hasty retreat. 

Why do I linger over these trifles? Ah ! every occur- 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


73 


rence of that happy time dwells in my memory. Even 
now, my pulses thrill, my cheeks flush, my heart beats, as 
I recall some of the slightest occurrences of those happy 
days. 

October passed — the Indian summer, that lovely sea- 
son of the year, glowed on the hills ; the trees had worn 
and lost their many-colored foliage. The birds had long 
since left us for a warmer climate. Again we gathered 
around the cheerful blaze of the grate, when, one even- 
ing, Hugh informed us he must leave us on the morrow. 

He had that day received letters which informed him 
that his presence was immediately necessary. Some com- 
plications, legal technicalities, had arisen in the final set- 
tlement of his father’s estate, the. business which called 
him West, and he had to be on the spot. 

“It is very annoying ; under any other circumstances 
I would be only too glad to be able to visit my old home 
afid my friends. Butsjust now, to be compelled to be 
absent nearly two months, when I thought two weeks 
would be sufficient, is more than provoking.” 

And I was as disappointed as he was. 

He was most unwilling to bid me good-bye. 

“I am almost tempted to wait another day and ask you 
to go with me,” he said, in the half-hour before his de- 
parture. “Sidney, I cannot bear to leave you; I almost 
dread our separation ! Once I laughed at you for being a 
little superstitious : I am afraid you might bring the same 
charge against me to-day.” 

“ I would like to know what you are afraid of ? ” I said, 
trying to cheer him. “ It is not likely I shall be spirited 
away before your return, or turned into a statue. You’ll 
find me here, safe and sound, when you return.” 

* 5 * 


7 4 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 1 1 wish that day was come already ; or, still better, 
that I could take you with me.” 

“You unreasonable creature ! ” my mother said as she 
came in. “ Can’t you wait till Christmas? As it is, we 
shall be hurried enough. Hugh, it is a rather unromantic 
fact ; but, indeed; if you linger longer over your adieux 
you will be too late for the train. ’ ’ 

“And that won’t wait for you,” I said with more cheer- 
fulness than I really felt. “ Why, I am braver than you 
are ; I can actually ‘ speed the parting guest. ’ ’ ’ 

My mother smiled. 

“ Why, Hugh ! you are not apt to be so nervous ! ” 

He caught both my hands in his, forgetful of my mo- 
ther’s presence. 

“Sidney! my darling ! (he had never given me that 
name before ;) you will trust me even as I trust you during 
my absence ! You will let no shadow come between us ! 
Rest assured I will not be absent one day longer than. I 
can help.” 

My mother drew me away from him. 

“Hugh, one would think you were to be absent six 
years instead of six weeks! They will soon be over. I 
will take care of Sidney for you ; and only think how soon 
you will meet again.” 

Six weeks ! It would be many a long day before we 
three would stand together again as we did that morning, 
though we none of us knew it ! There were trials in store 
for us of which we little dreamed. But Hugh’s depres- 
sion, causeless though it seemed, had infected me with a 
portion of his uneasiness ; and, scarcely knowing why I 
did it, I stood and watched his tall figure, as, with firm 
tread, he rapidly walked down the street. I watched 
him— -only too proud to think of my claim upon him — 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 175 

proud to think he had chosen me ; pleased at his evident 
reluctance to leave me. 

I disliked the separation. I knew how I should miss 
him, for only I knew what he was to me. Little did I 
think, as I watched, his retreating figure, how many long, 
weary days it would be before Hugh Ralston and I, if 
ever, would look again on each other’s faces. 

I only thought now of our re-union. Six weeks, and he 
would return to Fairfield, though not to our house. Dur- 
ing his absence it was thought best our engagement should 
be announced. On his return he would go to one of the 
hotels ; and two weeks later, on Christmas eve, we were 
to be married, and he would come home. 

Hugh proved a capital correspondent. His letters, 
which came regularly, were perfect transcripts of himself. 
I could almost imagine, as I read them, that I heard him 
speaking to me, they were so very characteristic — very 
entertaining, too, full of descriptions of people and things. 
Their arrival was quite an epoch to my mother and my- 
self, for there were very few of them in which I was not 
able to read whole pages to her. 

I was glad to see that in his very first letter he laughed 
at his own “ foolish fears,” as he called them. 

“ I wonder,” he wrote, 1 ‘ if, after all, I was not afraid 
of the journey? Somehow, that long railroad train 
seemed like some hideous monster, ready to devour or 
carry me off. Very absurd, wasn’t it? The iron horse 
truly does wonders, but it certainly is no ogre, to feed on 
human flesh. The journey, in this fast age, was a very 
trifling matter — a little fatiguing, I must confess ; but I 
had not been an hour on my way before I began to laugh 
at myself for my own foolish imaginings, as I suppose 
you and Mrs. Elliott both did before I was fairly out of 


SIDNEY ELL 10 T T. 


1 76 

sight. I was troubling myself about a shadow — as if 
there were not enough real trials in the world, without our 
disturbing ourselves^ about imaginary evils. You see 
4 Richard is himself again.’ ” 

I missed him terribly ; but his bright, cheerful letters 
did much to lessen my regret at his absence. I do not 
think mine were anything like the comfort to him, that his 
were to me. I wrote freely of all I thought would inter- 
est him, but he scolded at my ‘ prim ’ letters, as he called 
them. 

I don ’t believe, much as my mother liked Hugh, that 
she greatly regretted his present absence. She was sur- 
prised at the small outfit I considered sufficient, certainly 
not such as a heavier purse would have secured ; and I 
think she was pleased to have me, for these few last 
weeks, wholly to herself. Then, too, she could, in my 
leisure hours, persuade me to ply my needle with her, a 
feminine occupation I always had heartily despised. 

As yet, no one knew of my new plans. I believe I 
prized my happiness the more because it was, as it were, 
all my own. 

I came home rather early one afternoon, about three 
weeks after Hugh’s departure, to find Mrs. Merton and 
my mother sitting together in earnest conversation. To 
my great astonishment, Mrs. Merton got up and kissed 
me heartily. 

“Iamso glad, Sidney. You need not blush so, child : 
your mother has been telling me all about it. I do not 
wonder at your looking so well of late ; happiness is a great 
beautifier. And this explains your having so little time 
lately. Dr. Ralston and I will quarrel if he is going to 
monopolize you. I shall tell him your friends have some 
claim on you.” 


*. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 77 


I thanked her for her congratulations. 

•'‘But you have kept it so very quiet! Sidney, you 
might at least have told me!” 

“No one knows it, as yet, except yourself,” my mother 
said. “You are the first we have told.” 

“And am I pledged to secrecy?” 

“No,” my mother replied, before I could speak. “It 
had best be known now. They are to be married at 
Christmas, and there is no use in keeping it quiet any 
longer. ’ ’ 

“Right!” Mrs. Merton said. “I don’t believe in 
concealments. Sidney, if you don’t ask me to the wed- 
ding I will never forgive you. Remember that, or be- 
ware of my displeasure.” 

It might be right, but I did not like the publicity. As 
in other towns of its size, our people in Fairfield, kind- 
hearted though they might be, were only too. fond of gos- 
sip, and a new engagement was something they particu- 
larly loved to discuss. I knew my prospects would be 
talked about among my whole circle of acquaintance — 
that they would know more than I did myself ; and worst 
of all, to my shy, proud disposition, I would be congratu- 
lated and questioned unmercifully — I would be, for a 
while, public property. 

But, most of all, I hated the proclamation, as it seemed, 
of my innermost feelings. It detracted, as it were, from 
the sanctity of my engagement. That was something 
which had belonged exclusively to Hugh and myself, 
and now the whole world of Fairfield knew our sweet 
secret. 

I believe I prepared for my next round of duty with 
something of the same feeling with which, in olden times, 
women falsely accused, knowing themselves to be inno- 


i;8 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


cent, bared their feet and bowed their heads to receive 
the bandage over their eyes before walking blindfolded 
over red-hot ploughshares. To my sensitive nature — • 
and only similar dispositions can understand or enter 
into my feelings — it was nearly as great an ordeal. 

I lingered till the last minute, willing to put off the 
evil day. My mother, for the first time in years, spoke a 
little severely to me. 

“ Sidney, would you have Hugh think you are 
ashamed of him?” 

I turned to her. “ Not for one moment. Mother, I 
thank you. I was foolishly sensitive.” 

“You have no need to fear public opinion, nor has 
he,” she said, as 1 left her. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A BITTER CUP. 

O NE of the places to which I most dreaded going 
that week was Mrs. Cameron’s. .It had never been 
very pleasant for me to go there in my capacity of 
teacher, and of late I had still more greatly disliked it. 
Had I consulted my own wishes, I would long since have 
given up my two pupils there. But I could not do this 
without making myself the subject of remark. Mrs. 
Cameron, disagreeable though she undoubtedly was to 
me, yet possessed, by virtue of her husband’s wealth and 
position, considerable influence in the town. Her two 
younger children had been among my first pupils, and 
she had exerted herself to bring me into notice. It had, 
therefore, been impossible for me, without telling more 
of the past, which I sincerely desired to forget, than was 
at all advisable, or than I cared to have known, to refuse 
my services, unwillingly though they were given, and I 
concluded I had best “let well enough alone.” 

My lessons there were scarcely half over before Annie 
came into the parlor. 

“Glad to see you, Sidney. Come, Lou,” to her little 
sister, “you may run away. I want to talk to Miss 
Elliott.” 

“ But, Annie, the lesson is not half over. What will 
your mother say ? ’ ’ 

“ I ’ll take the responsibility — she won ’t care. Now,” 

179 


i8o 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


as the child, not sorry to be released, left the room, 
“I’ve got you at my mercy. Don’t blush so, Sidney; 
I’m only going to return the congratulations you offered 
me not long since.” 

“Thank you,” I said. “I have been overwhelmed 
with them of late.” 

“Then it is really true? Indeed, you have taken us 
all by surprise.” 

“ Mother ! ” as at that moment Mrs. Cameron entered, 
“just to think! J can scarcely believe my own ears ! ” 

Mrs. Cameron came forward to shake hands with me. 

“I am glad rumor, for once, told the truth. Miss 
Sidney, from all accounts, you are doing re-mark-a-bly 
well. I hear Dr. Ralston is a very nice young man.” 

“Nice!” Hugh Ralston called “ nice ! ” I could not 
appreciate the compliment, so said nothing. 

“A delightful change for you! Though we shall lose 
your invaluable services, we can only rejoice at your gain. 
A most delightful change — how you will enjoy it ! After 
having had to work so long for yourself, you will feel like 
a princess. Not that it made any real difference in your 
position, Miss Sidney, that you supported yourself ; but 
we all know how you must feel ! Ah ! you and Annie can 
sympathize with each other in your parallel positions! ” 

“How soon are you to be married, Sidney?” Annie 
broke in on this marvellous speech. “I suppose you 
have been very busy — have you many pretty things?” 

She was in her element now. 

“ Not many, I fear. I have no great fancy for sewing, 
and my preparations will be but limited.” 

“Annie might give you some patterns, Miss Sidney — 
her things are very stylish. I got all my ideas from Phi- 
ladelphia. ’ ’ 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 8 1 


“Come to my room, Sidney; I would like to show you 
what I have. More,” as we went along the passages, 
“than I know what to do with — it will take a lifetime to 
wear them all out. ’ ’ 

She brought, from bureau and wardrobe, piles and 
piles for my inspection. I could not but ask what use 
they would be to her. 

“I’ll lay most aside for future use. You know it’s 
fashionable to have lots of things.” 

“Then I fear I’m not very fashionable. I have only 
necessaries, and those but simply made.” 

“Oh! but I didn’t make these myself. Some were 
bought, and we’ve had a seamstress busy for weeks.” 

She was searching in her bureau as she spoke. 

“See, there is Lewie’s last present to me.” 

* It was a set of carbuncles, great, glowing stones, 
heavily set in gold. I did not particularly admire it. 

“Was it not kind of dear Lewie?” 

“Very — they are quite showy. Don’t you ever call 
Mr. Perkins Lewis?” 

“No, indeed. I like pet names — don’t you?” 

“ No — I cannot say that I do, for gentlemen. Those 
abbreviations always sound boyish.” 

“I should not know him by any other name. Lewie 
just suits him. What is Dr. Ralston’s name? I don’t 
think I ever heard.” 

“ Hugh,” very laconically. 

“Ah, yes, I remember. A name that won’t bear 
shortening. I understand your dislike of pet names 
now.” 

“ It ’s real nice to be engaged, is n’t it? ” as I rose to go. 
“A person has so many more privileges, and it is so con- 
venient to have some one to depend upon ! ” 

16 


182 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT . 


Now this was a view I had never taken of the matter; 
and as I left Annie, I scarcely knew which to be, most 
amused or most offended at the morning’s interview. 

Ah ! well — the world is made up of all kinds of people. 
It is just as well we don’t all think alike. 

I was fated to meet everybody I knew that week, and I 
was very tired of my numerous congratulations. The only 
pleasant thing about them was that I learned in how high 
estimation Hugh was held. 

Mr. Merton stopped me one afternoon. 

“I’m not going to congratulate you , Sidney — you’ve 
had enough of that, I suppose. But I will say this : that 
Ralston is a first-rate, noble fellow ; and as I have always 
looked upon you, somehow, as belonging to me, I shall 
claim the privilege of giving you away.” 

“A privilege I shall only be too happy to grant. You 
have always been a kind friend to me, Mr. Merton, and 
as my father is not here, I shall be grateful to you if you 
will supply his place.” 

“That I cannot do, nor any one else ! Poor John ! his 
daughter’s wedding-day would have been a happy day to 
him! There is one thing, Sidney: your father would 
have approved of your choice.” 

And all these praises were very sweet to me. I kept 
them in my heart and brooded over them. 

It was an afternoon of surprises to me. Kind as I 
knew Mr. Merton to be, I had never thought he was as 
much interested in me as his words this afternoon proved. 
I was still thinking over them, when I heard my name 
pronounced in a hesitating way ; and looking up, I saw 
Will Cameron. 

It was the first time, since our last painful interview, 
that we had done more than exchange a bow. By a sort 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 183 

of tacit agreement we had avoided each other. I think 
we both felt we had best not come in contact. 

He was looking badly — pale and worn — as I noticed 
after my momentary embarrassment was over. We walked 
on, side by side, and I inquired about his health. 

“It is only hard work — nothing more. I am become 
a hard student — a very book-worm, Miss Sidney. You 
inoculated me with some of your ambition.’ ’ 

“I am glad to hear of my one good deed,” I said, 
gayly. “I hear of you occasionally, Mr. Cameron; 
people say you will be a dignitary in Fairfield some of 
these days.” 

“My present life is very different from what it used 
to be.” 

“But you are happier. My own experience tells me 
that occupation brings, if not happiness, at least con- 
tent.” 

“I have not found it so,” rather bitterly. “It might 
have been, had you so chosen, all I could ask. No,” as 
I hurried my steps, unwilling to hear more, “I am not 
going to harass you or lose my own self-respect in worse 
than useless regrets. I see it all now, as I might have 
seen long ago, had I only chosen to see. I don’t won- 
der at you, Sidney — I have a thorough respect for Dr. 
Ralston, slightly though I know him — he will make you 
happier than I ever could have done. You have chosen 
well and wisely.” 

“As I hope you will, ere long,” I said, more moved 
than I cared to show. “I hope soon to be able to con- 
gratulate you.” 

“When I find another Sidney Elliott,” he said, more 

gay'y- , 

“Somebody better than I am. I won’t ask you to 


184 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


come and see me now, Mr. Cameron, but after a while I 
shall be glad to see you.” 

“A privilege I shall not be slow to avail myself of. I 
suppose you know I am to have a brother-in-law?” 

“Yes — Annie seems very happy.” 

“ I don’t like the match particularly. But Annie sees 
no faults in her intended.” 

“Love is proverbially blind,” I said, glad to change 
our conversation. 

“I think she has rose-colored spectacles on in this 
case.” 

I thought so myself, but I preferred to say nothing. It 
was no business of mine, and if the lady was satisfied, 
what mattered it ? There is a queer old story that pairs, 
like cheeses, are cut in half, and rolled down hill in one 
confused mass, to come together as best they may. 
Sometimes the right ones come together again — more 
frequently, the reverse. And if Annie Cameron thought 
she had found in Lewis Perkins her corresponding half- 
cheese, of which, in his rotund solidity, he was no very 
unfit representative, they would probably roll along 
through life as comfortably as most couples. 

I was not sorry, on the whole, for my brief talk with 
Mr. Cameron. It had been rather embarrassing, not a 
little awkward, but I hoped and thought we would now be 
friends. In spite of his lack of firmness, there were in 
him the germs of a noble character, which I hoped would 
now develop itself. I had forgiven him the pain he had 
once caused me. If I thought at all about the past, it 
was rather with a feeling of gratitude to him than with 
regret. My present happiness more than compensated 
me for all the past. 

Saturday came, the only day of the week I could call 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


185 

my own ; for even Sunday, a day of rest to most, was far 
from meriting that title for me, owing to my position as 
organist. 

The early mail brought me a letter from Hugh. It was 
not my usual day for hearing from him, and I hastily 
opened it. He wrote in low spirits. 

His business, he said, seemed to grow more compli- 
cated daily. New claims, new disputes arose, hydra- 
headed, every day. He was no nearer the termination 
than when he went there. 

“It drags along very slowly — more slowly, I sometimes 
think, because I am so anxious for it all to end. I fear 
I shall be detained here longer than I had anticipated. 
The lawyers say, till the middle of January. I hope 
these are only croakings. If you were with me, I should 
not care so much for the detention, which, under the cir- 
cumstances, is particularly irksome.” 

It was no good news to me, either. 

The day was one of those oppressive days in Novem- 
ber, when, though it is no't so very cold, the air is yet raw 
and chilly, and the wind goes sighing mournfully along 
our streets, sweeping around the corners; and though it 
does not rain, there is a mist in the air, through which the 
sun, far to the south, gleams at intervals like a fiery ball 
— a day I hated, a day which depressed and irritated 
me, weighing upon me like an incubus. I wandered rest- 
lessly through the house, unable to settle to anything. 
Hugh’s letter had partly aided in unnerving me; and after 
our early dinner, instead of, as my mother advised, going 
out for a walk, I went to my desk for the purpose of 
writing to Hugh. 

I forgot my low spirits in the pleasure of my inter- 
course, one-sided though it was, with my absent friend. 

16 * 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 86 

Pen and ink are wonderful alleviations of the pains of 
separation. 

I wrote on for some time freely, as was my wont, for 
my letters to him weye nearly a diary of my daily life, 
when my mother called me. 

“I am sorry to interrupt you, Sidney, for I know how 
you hate to lay aside your pen. It cannot be helped just 
now : Hugh must wait for his letter. Meta Gray is in the 
parlor, and wishes to see you. ’ ’ 

My wishes would have prompted me to excuse myself : 
very unwillingly I laid aside my pen, and. went to meet 
my visitor. 

She was standing near the fire, gazing earnestly into 
its ruddy depths. She was very handsomely, indeed 
elegantly dressed. A rich black silk, soft, lustreless and 
unrustling,, fell in graceful folds around her. Meta’s 
dresses always reminded me of drapery, like that of an 
antique statue; a velvet cloak, soft, filmy laces at her 
throat and wrists, a little hat, shaded with a drooping 
green feather; at her throat and pendent from her small, 
shell-like ears, a set of jewels, emeralds and opals, in a 
light setting of dead gold — priceless stones, whose glitter 
in the firelight reminded me of the eyes of the wearer. 
I had never seen her more handsomely attired. She was 
very pale, I noticed ; all her lovely color was gone, and I 
thought there was a wistful look, almost amounting to sad- 
ness, in her marvellous eyes. 

We talked of indifferent subjects, in which I know 
neither of us felt the slightest interest. Then there came 
a brief silence, which Meta broke : 

“ I have seen but little of you, of late, Sidney. Whose 
fault has it been? Not mine, surely.” 

“I am growing used to that accusation,” I replied, 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 187 

carelessly. “I hear it on all sides, Meta; I have but 
little time for visiting now.” 

“So I heard. Report says, Sidney, that you have 
found your Chevalier Bayard at last.” 

“You have not forgotten that old conversation, I see.” 

“/ never forget ,” with a sidelong glance at me. 
“And, of course, you are very happy. Come, tell me 
all about it.” 

“There is very little to tell,” I said, a little nettled at 
her slightly sarcastic tone. “I am engaged to Hugh 
Ralston, and we are to be married when he returns to 
Fairfield. I am not ashamed to tell it.” 

“I had heard it. I wished to hear it from your own 
lips. Sidney, do you want me to congratulate you?” 

Something, what I cannot say, made me look up. She 
was watching me, as I have seen a child watch the quiver- 
ing struggles of an insect he had crushed, and which was 
not wholly dead. 

“I see! You are proud of your ‘ blameless, fearless 
knight. ’ What would you say, could I prove to you he is 
not all you think him ? Fearless, he may be — blameless, 
never ! ” 

“ Meta! how dare you?” I faltered. “Hugh Ralston 
is the soul of honor. I will not listen to a word against 
him.” 

“You shall listen to me, Sidney. Girl ! I only speak 
for your own good! I would save you from sorrow — 
from bitter regret. At the risk of losing your friendship, 
precious as it is to me, I will speak : I will prove myself 
a true friend. Shall I go on?” 

“Yes!” 

“You think your lover honorable, true! You have 
heard of ‘ whited sepulchres ! ’ such a one is Hugh Ral- 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


1 88 

ston. He has won you, raised hopes he never means to 
fulfil; for, Sidney, all this time he is engaged to ano- 
ther — pledged, in the most solemn way.” 

“It is false — false!” I interrupted her. “A vile 
slander ! ’ ’ 

“I wish it were, for your sake,” almost tenderly. 
“But have you ever heard him speak of me, Sidney? — • 
ever heard him speak of our past? You know we met 
before : have you never wondered on what terms we 
stood ? I tell you now, Sidney — promised husband and 
wife ! ” 

“ Meta ! you are surely jesting ! If so, tell me at once. 
This is too painful a jest for me ! ” 

“I wish I could! Cannot you believe my solemn 
word ? Have I ever, in any way, in my intercourse with 
you, deviated from the truth ? ’ * 

She had not, as I was compelled to confess ; and pain- 
fully I began to think her words might be true. Could 
this be the tie between them which had so perplexed me 
when Dr. Ralston first came among us ? This would ex- 
plain it, and those mysterious walks I had once or twice 
met them taking together ! 

“ Can you give me any proof of this, Meta? ” I said, 
hoarsely. “Ido not like to doubt your word — but — * ’ 

“ I can,” very slowly. “ These jewels, in their strange 
setting, were his first present to me — old family jewels, 
belonging to his mother. See,” laying one of the ear- 
rings in my hand. 

On the reverse of the gold was engraved, in tiny let- 
ters, “Mary Gordon,” his mother’s maiden name, as I 
too well knew. 

“That is not sufficient,” I said, after examining the 
jewel. “ I need some stronger proof.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


189 

“That, too, I can give — or shall I leave you in your 
blindness ? No ! Then you, yourself, shall supply the 
necessary facts.” 

“You had a letter from Hugh this morning? ” I as- 
sented. “One you did not expect — one in which he 
told you he would be delayed ! Shall I tell you the time 
he fixed for his return? — the middle of January.” 

She laid her hand on mine. I shrank from her. 

“This you might have learned by accident,” I said, as 
I thought my mother might possibly have mentioned 
these two facts to her. i ‘ I need something more palpa- 
ble than this.” 

“Not satisfied yet? You are hard to convince. Yet, 
I know I can do it.” 

She drew a letter from her pocket, which she handed 
me. It bore her name, in Hugh’s resolute, firm hand — 
it bore the post-mark of the town where he now was, and, 
with a low cry, I pushed it from me, burying my face in 
my hands. I was at last convinced ! 

She bent over me, caressingly. I sprang to my feet. 

“Will you marry him now, Meta Gray?” 

A soft, rosy flush, like that of the early morning, rushed 
over her face. Her lips slowly formed the words — “I 
love him ! ” There was no mistaking the accent — it was 
that of truth. 

“You are welcome to him, then,” all my pride coming 
to my aid. “You have proved yourself a true friend, 
Meta : I should thank you for it. Later, perhaps, I will — 
now, ga! Go! — I feel as if I never wished to look 
upon your face again ! ” 

We stood, the conqueror and the conquered, gazing at 
each other. Her eyes fell under my steady look, and at 
last, with a slow, gliding motion, she noiselessly turned 
and left the room. 


190 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


And, scarcely knowing what I did, crushed to the 
ground, sick at heart, I crept to my room. I only wanted 
to be alone — in solitude to fight this horror which had 
come into my life, darkening all my fair prospects/ blight- 
ing my very existence ! 

My mother came to my door at tea-time. 

“Ido not wish any,” as calmly as I could. “My 
head feels wretchedly, mother. I hope a good night’s 
rest will cure it. ’ ’ 

A good night! Oh! mockery of words — it was a 
night of horror — a night of bitter distress ! 

I remember it now, as we remember agonizipg pain, 
with a prayer we may never again be called to pass 
through it. Confidence betrayed, affection misplaced — 
is there any more bitter trial ? The words I had that day 
heard haunted me. I could not forget them. 

I cannot dwell on that night — my recollection of it is 
but a confused one of acute suffering. I never un- 
dressed — I threw myself on my face across my bed, and 
there, in sleeplessness, in misery, those long, weary hours 
passed. 

I rose in the morning to see my unfinished letter to 
Hugh lying, as I had left it, on my open desk. I shiv- 
ered as I gazed at it ! Then, with a sudden impulse, I 
seized the closely-written sheets, thrust them into the grate, 
and they were soon reduced to ashes. My own written 
love-words should not mock me — shadows of a false 
happiness ! 

How I got through that Sunday I do not know. I 
went about uncomplainingly — and I know my mother 
thought my heavy eyes, my pale cheeks, were but the 
natural consequence of my headache of the preceding 
evening, to which she knew I was subject. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. I9I 

I went to church, scarce knowing what I did. Me- 
chanically I followed the services, rising and kneeling in 
the proper places ; but the voice of the minister was as 
a dull, undistinguished sound in my ears. I did not even 
know what members of the choir were present. Yet they 
told me, afterward, that I had never played as well. I 
do not remember it ; yet, in the closing voluntary, the 
whole congregation, with one accord, stopped to listen, 
and not one left the church till the last pealing note had 
died away under my trembling fingers. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


NEW POWERS. 

T HERE was but one idea in my mind on the morn- 
ing following that dreary Sabbath-day. It was — 
that my mother must be told of the blight which had come 
over my life. How was I to do it ? The opportunity came 
sooner than I had anticipated. 

4 ‘ Another letter for you, Sidney,” as I took my seat 
at the table. “ I hope it contains better news than the 
last you received.” 

My hand trembled as I laid the letter by my plate. 
There it lay, and I sat staring at the familiar hand- 
writing, my heart cold within me as a lump of ice. 

“Don ’t you intend to read it? Come, I am nearly as 
much interested in Hugh’s movements as you are your- 
self.” 

“Read it?” I echoed. “No, mother! ” summoning 
all my courage. “ Never — »or anything else that comes 
from his hand. I may as well tell you the truth, bitter 
though it is.* False, dishonorable as he has proved, our 
engagement is at an end.” 

“ Sidney ! you are dreaming ! Hugh Ralston false and 
dishonorable ? I cannot believe it of him.” 

I laughed — a bitter, mocking laugh. 

“ I, too, believed in his truth. I, too, trusted in his 
honor. An empty faith — a broken trust.” 

And, kneeling by her side, my head resting on her 

192 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


*93 

bosom, I told, as well as I could, of my interview with 
Meta. * 

“ Do you wonder now, mother,” as I finished my pain- 
ful story, “ knowing what I do? There is but one course 
left for me — to cast him off ! ” 

“ Will you not ask him for an explanation? Circum- 
stances are strong against him.” 

“ Never!" I interrupted. “ No explanation he could 
offer would be satisfactory ; I wish to hear nothing that 
he can say. What ! throw myself at his feet, to have 
myself trampled upon? Mother — I have some pride 
left.” 

“ But it may be false.” 

“ I cannot doubt the evidence of my own senses. And 
now, mother, if you love me, let us drop this subject. 
I never wish to hear his name again ■ — never wish any 
reference made to the past. I would not give him the 
satisfaction of thinking he could pain me. Only, mother, ’ ’ 
my voice trembling at last, “you must love me better 
now — I have only you left me ! ” 

We never mentioned the matter again. 

Before I went to my pupils that day, I sought my room. 

I drew from my finger, where he had placed it, the ring — 
emblem of so many sweet hopes. I gathered together 
all the letters I had received ; his picture, and last, the 
epistle I had that morning received — unopened and un- 
read — I added to the package. Then, selecting my best 
pen, my finest paper, I sat down to my desk, and in a 
firm, untrembling hand, I wrote the following lines : 

“After what has passed, you cannot be surprised that 
I withdraw from my engagement. I ask, I offer no ex- 
planation ; I make no reproaches — either would be 
thrown away.” 

17 


194 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


Then, folding these relics carefully together, I directed 
them, in a clear, legible manner, and, passing the post- 
office, I dropped them into the box. 

It was as well for me I had to teach that day; but my 
self-appointed task was not yet over. 

That evening I gathered together every article which 
had been made in preparation for my approaching mar- 
riage. I laid them carefully in the rose-scented drawers — 
even now, the smell of those damask roses has something 
funereal about it to me — almost wishing they were my 
grave-clothes! I never wished to see them again. 1 
locked the drawers, one by one, and, taking the key to 
my mother, I gave it to her. “Keep it,” I said to her, 
“where I never can see it. I shall never ask you for it 
again.” 

Two or three more letters came to me, one after the 
other. Not o*ne of them did I open, they were all sent 
back unread. 

I do not know how I should have lived through those 
days, if it had not been for my mother’s thoughtful kind- 
ness. It never failed. Her silent sympathy — for though, 
in compliance with my request, it never expressed itself 
in words — yet showed itself in a thousand ways. Her soft 
kiss on .my cheek, her gentle hand smoothing my hair, 
the many kind offices of affection, were most soothing 
to me. 

I do not like to dwell upon those days. Writing of 
them now, after the lapse of years, some of the old pain 
comes back. It was as though a crushing weight had 
fallen on me, or as though a bright summer’s day had 
been suddenly clouded. My love for Hugh Ralston had 
become so much a part of my very self, that to cast it 
away was like tearing away my very life. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


195 


How I felt I cannot tell — nor would I, if I could. 
Mrs. Browning’s “ De Profundis” — that sad utterance 
of a sorrowing heart — was the very rendering of my feel- 
ings. That part of my life was a separate existence — it 
did not seem to belong to me. I had known suffering 
before — but what was it in comparison with this ? Utter 
nothingness. 

Not for one moment did I attach any blame to Meta. 
Though she was, as it were", to come between me and 
all that could render life dear, I could not blame her. 
She had proved herself, I thought, a friend ; and though 
I had driven her from my presence, I felt deeply grateful 
to her. My pride forbade my acknowledging this — as it 
did the declaration of my changed position. If Meta 
chose to announce her engagement, she might; my lips 
were sealed — and even as they were sealed, I would have 
sealed up my past. I would have buried it away from all 
resuscitation, as in Jean Ingelow’s “ Dead Year.” 1 would 

“ Let the dark for evermore 
Close thee when I close the door; 

And the dust for ages fall 
In the creases of thy pall; 

And no voice nor visit rude 
Break thy seal’d solitude.” 

I dared not dwell upon the past — with the pale ghosts 
of “ what might have been ” haunting it. Still less would 
I dwell upon the future — its brilliant promises were all 
clouded to me. Only the present was left — and ob ! 
what a dull blank that was. Life was a burden, nothing 
interested me ; had it not been for my mother I would 
gladly have died. But life and youth were too strong 
within me for that. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


196 

I have said that nothing interested me. It was not so ; 
there was one thing in which I did take some little inter- 
est, because it made me forget, for the time, my own suf- 
ferings. 

Looking through my desk, that Monday, in searching 
for the letters I had desired to return, I had found the 
forgotten manuscript of my story. I had then carelessly 
pushed it aside. Later, I took it up, to occupy my 
thoughts, and with some vague hope that I might find in 
Fame, could I but win it, the peace I had failed to win 
from Love. 

It was but a selfish life, as I now think, that I then led. 
I lived wholly in myself, with no thought for others. I 
avoided all companionship, save that which was forced 
upon me. 

The days passed rapidly enough. As once before, I 
found in occupation my best cure. I had now more 
pupils than ever : they filled my days. 

The evenings were the worst. My mother had tried to 
interest me in our old amusements, reading and conversa- 
tion, but I liked neither. My pen was my only consola- 
tion, and to it I devoted all my spare hours. I believe 
that it, and it alone, saved me from going crazy. In the 
imaginary troubles of my heroine, I forgot my own. My 
wakeful hours at night were spent in composition ; my 
leisure hours by day were given to writing. 

My story was but a simple one — that of a woman’s life 
and trials — an autobiography. I thought that was least 
difficult. Mad. de Stael says that novel-writing is the 
Easiest branch of literature. I do not agree with her. It 
is no easy thing to write a good novel. We can only 
paint life as we see it, not as it is. We see the result, not 
the moving springs; and how do we know what influ- 


SIDNEY ELL 10 TT. 


19 7 

ences are at work under the actions we most praise or 
condemn? 

I could not but think of Hugh’s words to me, as my 
book progressed, about women being too apt to make 
their writings but the reflection of themselves. Over and 
over again I found myself putting in my heroine’s mouth 
my own words — attributing to her my own sentiments; 
making her act as I would have done under similar cir- 
cumstances. This would not do. The public should not 
see me in my own creation — should not know me as I 
was; and whenever I saw the “/” apparent in what I 
had written, that part was destroyed and carefully re- 
written. And there was not one word of any foreign lan- 
guage in the book. I was determined that no one should 
accuse me of borrowing words from a strange tongue 
wherewith to conceal my paucity of ideas. 

Only those who themselves have written will understand 
the fascination which this, my first effort with the pen, 
exercised over me. I wrote till my temples throbbed and 
my face burned, and my weary fingers and aching wrist 
refused to obey my bidding. I grew pale and thin. I 
saw my mother often look at me anxiously, as though she 
would have me rest; but she said nothing. It would 
have been useless. Yet, at times, I was almost tempted to 
commit the whole thing to the flames. What I had writ- 
ten, after the fever of composition was over, fell so far 
short of what I intended it to be — my ideas, when im- 
prisoned in ink and paper, seemed so trivial, that I was 
discouraged. This dissatisfaction with my own efforts 
was, though I little guessed it then, the surest proof of my 
improvement, and, in spite of it all, I persevered. 

It was finished at last. I well remember the day my 
cramped and tired fingers wrote the last words, and added 

17* 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


I98 

the last page to the pile of manuscript. It was like part- 
ing from a friend. 

I was thankful, in those dreary days, that I had no sis- 
ters. Between them, as a general rule, I had seen little 
or no sympathy. I had been too much behind the scenes 
in my teaching. There, I had seen sisters, gentle and 
loving enough in public, full of bitter and unkind feel- 
ings. I had seen how the spirit of teasing had imbittered 
lives and Saddened hearts ; how, under its blighting influ- 
ences, demon as it is, coldness and dissension had grown 
up in families ; how it had wounded the sensitive, and, 
playing, as it did, upon the tenderest chords, had de- 
stroyed love and confidence, to raise in their place dislike 
and suspicion. If I had had this trial, petty in appear- 
ance, fearful in reality, as all those who have passed 
through it can bear witness, in addition to my others, I 
dare not think what the consequences might have been ! 

But I had no fear M of this from my mother. She was 
too gentle, too much of a lady to tease. And secure of 
her sympathy, I, wishing for some one’s opinion of my 
story, went to her, my best, dearest friend, as a mother 
ever should be to her daughter. 

Half proud, half ashamed, one wintry night late in 
December, I read what I had written to her. The hours 
passed, interrupted only by my low voice, as I sat at her 
feet, or by the rustling of the leaves, as, one by one, I 
turned them over. 

I read it all, and, laying aside the last page, I silently 
raised my eyes to her face, waiting for her verdict. Not 
a word had she spoken during the reading, and now I 
waited almost breathlessly for her to speak. 

But I do not intend to record her words. A mother’s 
praise j what can be sweeter to a daughter’s ear? Enough 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


I99 


to say, that with her full, unqualified consent, the volume 
was next day forwarded to one of the leading publishing 
houses in Philadelphia, a firm whose kind, gentlemanly 
treatment of all who have dealings with them has won 
them an enviable reputation. This done, I could only 
wait. 

In all these weeks Hugh Ralston’s name had never once 
been mentioned between us. He had, as it were, passed 
entirely out of our lives. Yet he was not forgotten. I 
know my mother still had faith in him, that she still 
thought him honorable, true ; that at one word from me, 
she would have written to him, to ask him to clear him- 
self from the charges which to me seemed unanswerable. 
But his name never once passed her lips — and oh ! how 
I thanked her for it. 

In all I have written, frequently as my mother’s name 
appears, I know, I feel I have not done justice to her 
character. A good, true-hearted, pure-minded woman, 
a tender mother, a humble, consistent Christian, her 
thorough unselfishness, her delicacy and refinement were 
felt and appreciated by all who knew her, and by none 
more than myself. Different as we were — for, though I was 
the more resolute, the more determined of the two, and 
though she was by far the superior — I fairly idolized her. 
I felt for her not only the love and confidence she merited 
as my mother, but there existed a warm friendship be- 
tween us. 

She was not sorry that I had laid aside my pen. I, on 
the contrary, regretted it. I missed its constant compan- 
ionship, the occupation it had given to my thoughts. It 
had enabled me to control myself, had produced an 
almost unnatural calmness; and now that this stimulus 
was removed, I was to pay the penalty. 


200 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


My brain, my powers of self-control, had been too se- 
verely tried, and Nature would revenge herself for the 
force I had laid upon them. The headache, to which 
I had been always subject, returned at more frequent 
intervals ; I could not sleep, and hiy restless nights were 
followed by listless days, when I could scarcely perform 
my duties : and as long as I was able I bore up — but 
it was not for long. 

Christmas came, that day whose coming I had dreaded, 
for I feared the thoughts it would bring — the memo- 
ries of blighted hopes ! I need not have feared it, for 
when that day dawned I was unconscious of its com- 
ing. My mother, entering my room at an early hour to 
call me, found me lying in a burning fever, unconscious 
of my surroundings. Nature, too severely tried, had 
given way at last. The long struggle was over — my 
powers of endurance had failed. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


SICKNESS AND RESIGNATION. . 

O F the weeks which followed I have no distinct 
recollection. A few faint ideas, like half-forgotten 
dreams, I can recall ; but these memories are too misty 
and undecided for me to depend upon them. 

For days, the fever, consuming me, preying upon me, 
ran high. It was accompanied with delirium, in which I 
lived over, unconsciously to myself, all the past year. 
Intervals would come when I lay quiet, to all appearance, 
yet a word would bring back all my old ravings. 

To my mother’s tender, untiring care, through that 
long, wearisome illness, I owe the preservation of my life. 
For my time was not yet come ; youth and a strong con- 
stitution were on my side. The delirium left me, th*e 
burning fever subsided, and I lay pale and feeble— so 
nervous I started at the slightest sound — too weak even 
to think — careless whether I lived or died. 

I knew — how, I know not — yet I knew it, that Hugh 
Ralston had returned to Fairfield. I knew, too, or rather 
I had one day felt, that he had been under our roof. It 
was during one of my calmer intervals, and my mother 
had been called away for a moment from my bedside. 
She left the door open, so that she might be recalled im- 
mediately. Ralston was there, awaiting her in the hall. 
His voice, subdued though it was, reached my ears, sen- 
sitively alive to the slightest sound ; and ere he and my 

201 


202 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


mother could exchange more than a word, she was called 
back to me. My delirium had returned with tenfold 
fury. 

Dr. Kennedy was my physician, and no one could 
have been kinder or more considerate. People wondered 
why he was employed instead of Hugh ; why the latter, 
since his return, had been boarding at one of the hotels, 
instead of returning to his old quarters with us. They 
did not know his name was never mentioned in my 
hearing. 

Once, indeed, it was — and with effects similar to those 
the sound of his voice had produced. I had been lying, 
motionless, for hours, without a word passing my lips, 
when Dr. Kennedy came to make his usual visit. 

“She. is no better to-day, Mrs. Elliott. I see no 
change either way. I wish you would 'let me call Ralston 
in ; it would be a satisfaction to myself. ’ * 

But the name — his name, to which my senses, sealed 
as they seemed to all external objects, were yet alive — 
was enough. Another fit of delirium ensued, lasting for 
hours. Dr. Kennedy, frightened at the effect of his sug- 
gestion, never repeated it. 

The springs of life, however, were yet strong within 
me. When even the sanguine physician began to think 
my case was hopeless, when my mother began to think 
she would be called upon to resign me, the scale, quiver- 
ing for so long between life and death, began to turn. 
Slowly, but surely, the fever abated— the light of reason 
came back. I was better ; but my illness left me painfully 
weak, nervous, and listless. 

“I can do nothing more for her, Mrs. Elliott,” good 
Dr. Kennedy said one day to my mother. “What she 
needs now is to be roused — her recovery depends now 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


203 

upon herself. Her illness now is more mental than phy- 
sical” — more clear-sighted than most medical men — 

“and if you can remove the weight on her mind, interest 
her in something, she will get well fast enough.” 

My poor mother ! She knew well enough what it was 
that lay, a dead weight, on my. heart ! 

It must have been very hard for her. I was listless, and * 

unable or unwilling to make the slightest exertion. I 
would not even have thought, could I have avoided that. 

I depended on my mother for everything ; and she, in 
her tender pity for me, never once reminded me of my 
selfishness, for such it was. 

I used to sit, after I was able to leave my bed, in a 
large invalid-chair, saying nothing, noticing nothing. — in 
a sort of dull apathy, from which my mother vainly en- 
deavored, by every means which lay in her power, to 
rouse me. One day, hoping she had at last found some- 
thing I would care for, she brought me my book, pub- 
lished at last, and with it various newspaper notices and 
letters. 

My book had been a success — not only to the pub- 
lishers, but it had brought me considerable pecuniary 
profit. It was as well, for else I do not know how we 
should have borne the expenses attendant upon my illness. 

I carelessly turned over the fair pages, beautiful specimens 
of the printer’s art ; but I did not linger over them : I 
took up the notices of the papers sent me by the pub- 
lishers. 

They all spoke favorably of my maiden effort. “A 
first attempt,” one of them said, “it undoubtedly was ; 
yet, an attempt which promised well for the future. 

There were faults, but the writer would improve ; and did 
the future but fulfil the promise of the present, one day 


204 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


the author might hope to take a distinguished place in 
American literature.” 

Then, instead of “ damning with faint praise, ’ ’ my kind 
critic went on to point out the errors, “errors peculiar to 
young writers,” and warning me how to avoid them. 
Where he could give praise, he gave it freely; where 
blame was needed, he did not withhold it. 

I read it over carefully, feeling its justice ; but I did not 
linger over it. Even less attention did I bestow upon my 
letters — one from my publishers, congratulating me upon 
my success, and offering their services in future — a second, 
from a well-known firm in New York, desiring me to 
mention my own terms for a second volume from my pen. 
I had waked up to “find myself famous.” 

But what did I care for my laurels ? Just now, they 
seemed valueless. In the past, which now seemed ages 
removed, I might have prized them ; now, they were but 
emptiness. 

My mother had hoped this would supply the needed 
stimulus — in vain. I relapsed into my former listless 
state. 

Yet, day by day I gained strength. My friends were 
allowed to visit me, and they were kind in coming. From 
them I heard of the doings of the winter. Annie Came- 
ron’s wedding had been followed by a number of parties : 
there had been the usual changes — births, deaths, and 
marriages. 

It was all one to me. I cared nothing for the external 
world — not even the familiar names interested me. Only 
one thing I did notice : that among all my visitors, not 
one ever mentioned Meta Gray’s name. Not that the 
omission troubled me, nor did I ask any questions ; it was 
a matter of perfect indifference to me whether they spoke 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


205 


of her or not, only I sometimes wondered if she were 
married, and they feared to tell me of it. As I was then, 
it would have been no shock to me. 

But a day was coming when I was to be aroused — 
when feeling and hope, which I had thought dead 
within me, were to arise from the ashes where, unknown 
to myself, they lay smouldering, and re-assert their su- 
premacy. A day which was for me the beginning of a 
new life, which opened to me the portals of a new world : 
and yet its threshold was — a grave ! 

It was the first day I had even exerted myself so far as to 
walk across my room to the window. Not that I had not 
before been strong enough for this, but I had been con- 
tent to sit over the fire, like an old woman. To-day, the 
first time for more than three months, I looked again 
upon the face of Nature. 

She wore a very different aspect now from that she had 
presented, when, on Christmas eve, I had last looked 
upon her. Then, the hills lay white and cold ; the river 
was one unbroken sheet of ice, on which moved the merry 
skaters ; the trees showed their branches in bare tracery 
against a wintry sky, hanging with icicles ; the sky was of 
that frosty clearness which only belongs to a winter’s day ; 
the air, though calm, was yet cold; all lay in the firm, 
still embrace of the Ice King. 

Now, how changed ! The hills wore already a pale 
green. The trees began to unfold their leaves, promise 
of the summer’s foliage ; the river, freed from its icy 
bonds, flashed and sparkled its waves in the early April 
sunlight; here and there, through the garden, a few 
hardy flowers were in bloom, and already the birds had 
returned from the South. The winter was over; spring, 
18 


20 6 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT \ 


with all her beauty, a beauty renewed every year, never 
perishing, had returned to our land. 

It was not till I saw how the time I had spent in my 
room had, by slow degrees, left its traces on the earth, 
that I really understood how long I had been sick. And 
as this came over me, I felt, for the first time, that I, too, 
once more must be “ up and doing.” I must resume the 
burden of labor, which for a while had slipped from my 
shoulders. Most unwillingly I faced this truth ; most 
sadly I felt that I had all my work to recommence — not 
as once before, in youth and hope, light-hearted and 
courageous; but as a saddened, weary woman! 

For I was tired of my life, unwilling to receive the 
health and strength which mercifully had been restored to 
me. Because one blessing, the chief of all blessings, 
the sacred gift of love, had been denied me — me, who 
would have so prized, so valued it — I could not see the 
many others that had fallen to my lot. For even in the 
thorniest, stoniest path, we may gather flowers, do we but 
seek for them — even in the loneliest life there may be 
happiness. All may win some love, though it may not 
be the crowning love. And though I might be denied my 
throne, my heritage, in the kingdom over which we 
women reign — the heart of man ; though never I might 
claim the realm of home, mine might yet be a noble life. 
I might bind round my brow, if I so willed it, the laurel - 
wreath of fame. I might find, in the applause of the 
world, a substitute for the dearer, sweeter praises of a 
lover’s lips : denied what I most craved, I would try to 
accept gratefully what lay within my reach. 

Yet all this time I knew that my love for Hugh Ralston 
would never die. Through evil report, through good re- 
port, it would cling to him — only dying with my death ! 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


207 


My heart, once given to him, was given forever; and 
knowing this, I vowed, then and there, that never would 
I carry to any man’s fireside an unwilling heart — never 
give my hand, pledge of a divided duty. Better to pass 
alone through life. I would always find something for 
my hands to do, without binding myself to that living 
slavery, a loveless marriage. 

One year ago, Will Cameron, had he so willed, might 
have won me. Then I had not sounded the depths of my 
own nature — had not discovered as yet what my true self 
was. Now, I stood resigned to my lot, whatever it might 
be ; and such resignation is a sort of heroism. It takes 
courage such as few men possess, and few women get 
credit for, to look facts unshrinkingly in the face, and 
to nerve ourselves, none the less bravely because trem- 
blingly, to meet them. 

So my fate, as I thought, was fixed. I was unworthy 
of the happiness which so brief a time before had seemed 
within my reach only to escape me ; and I whispered to 
myself, as this thought came over me, a verse of that 
sweetest, saddest of all love-songs : 

“I was not half worthy of you, Douglas; 

Not half worthy the like of you ! 

Now, all men besides are to me like shadows : 

I love you, Douglas, tender and true.” 

But my Douglas had not proved himself true. I could 
only apply the unworthiness to myself. 

Absorbed as I was, I did not hear the door open, nor 
the step that crossed the floor. Not till a hand was 
lightly laid on my shoulder did I turn, to receive Mrs. 
Merton’s affectionate kiss. 

“Sidney, my poor child! how you are changed ! I 
should scarcely have known you! ” 


208 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


My mother, who had come in with her, smiled. 

“ You should have seen her three weeks ago. She is 
looking almost like herself now." 

“ She is not the bright, rosy girl I congratulated on her 
appearance a few months since. We must build her up 
again as fast as we can.” 

“ It will do her no good to stand so long,” my mother 
said, making me sit down, which I was glad to do, for I 
was still weak, and in my re very I had forgotten how 
long I had stood by the window. 

“You must have thought it strange, Sidney,” Mrs. 
Merton went on, after a pause, “that through all your 
sickness I have not been here ; nor since your convales- 
cence. I could not help it.” 

Now that she spoke of it, I remembered that among my 
visitors I had not seen her ; but I had not, till now, given 
it a thought. 

‘ * I have been kept at home by very painful circum- 
stances, and nothing would have brought me out to-day, 
had I not wished to see you.” She looked, question- 
ingly, at my mother. 

“ You may as well tell her the truth,” the latter said, 
in reply to Mrs. Merton’s look. “I think she can bear 
it, and she will have to hear it before long.” 

“‘You have not asked after Meta, Sidney,” my friend 
began, in a hesitating manner. “You and she were 
friends : have you no questions to ask me about her ? ’ ’ 

“ No ! ” I said, coldly. “ I wish to hear nothing con- 
cerning her,” and I turned restlessly away. 

4 ‘ Child ! child ! will you speak so, when I tell you she 
is — dying? ” 

Dying ! Meta Gray dying ! She, with all her youth, 
beauty, wealth; with all her golden store of affection for 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


209 


which I so thirsted ; with all to make life precious to her, 
dying ! And I, weary, sad-hearted, to whom the quiet 
grave would have been a welcome resting-place, to be 
left ! It was a strange ordering. 

I could not speak for a moment; and when I did, it 
was to ask, in faltering tones, how this had occurred. 

“Very simply,” was the reply. “She had been 
bridesmaid for Annie Cameron, whose wedding had been 
followed by a number of parties. Meta, returning from 
one of these on a bitterly cold night, had taken cold. She 
neglected it, thinking it would pass away ; but instead of 
that, it settled on her lungs. Her mother died of con- 
sumption, which probably rendered her liable to the dis- 
ease ; for one day, in a violent fit of coughing, she broke 
a blood-vessel, and since then has never left her bed.” 

I listened, deeply moved. Was this to be the end of 
that young, bright life ? 

“Since that day,” she continued, “I have never left 
her. Nor would I have done it to-day, save at her own 
earnest request. Sidney, Meta craves your presence ; she 
bids me say to you that she must see you. She is rest- 
less and uneasy ; will you not soothe her by returning 
home with me?” 

Nothing that I could have been asked to do could have 
been more repugnant to my feelings. To see my rival, 
dying though she might be — the very thought brought 
back the agony of pain which our last interview had 
caused me, and I shrank from its renewal. 

“Go with Mrs. Merton, dear,” my mother, reading 
my thoughts, gently said. “ I do not think you will re- 
gret it.” 

But I could not bear the thought. Every excuse I could 
think of I brought forward ; they were all set aside. 

18* 


210 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“I cannot walk so far/' I said at last. “ I have not 
yet been even down stairs.” 

“ Poor child ! we would not ask it of you. The car- 
riage is at the door, and the air to-day is so soft and warm 
that the ride will do you good.” 

So, almost in spite of myself, I was carefully wrapped 
up, taken down stairs, and placed in the carriage. As I 
leaned back on the soft cushions, a little exhausted by the 
excitement and the unusual exertion, I heard my mother 
whisper hurriedly to Mrs. Merton, as the latter prepared 
to enter the carriage : 

“ Shall you tell her anything, Mary? ” 

4 ‘No,” very decidedly. “Let Meta tell her own 
story — it will come with a far better grace from her 
lips than from mine.” 

There was no time for more. The carriage rolled 
easily away, and I thought no more of the words I had 
overheard. Mrs. Merton jvas very silent during our 
short drive, which I enjoyed ; for after my long confine- 
ment to the house, the sweet, soft, spring air was most 
grateful to me, and, sooner than I wished, we reached 
our destination. 

Mrs. Merton almost lifted me out of the carriage. 
Taking me to the parlor* warm and cheerful, she care- 
fully removed my wrappings, and after making me sit 
down and drink a glass of wine, she left me for a mo- 
ment to prepare Meta for the interview. I was glad 
of the brief solitude, for it gave me time to compose 
myself. 

It was not without curiosity that I ‘looked forward to the 
meeting. What could Meta have to say to me ? I puz- 
zled my brain in vain ; my wildest imaginings were to fall 
far short of the reality. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


21 1 


There was the stillness through the house that a dan- 
gerous sickness always produces — a stillness almost pain- 
fully oppressive. I had barely time to notice this change 
in the usually cheerful, noisy house, when Mrs. Merton 
returned. 

“Meta is ready and anxious to see you, Sidney. But 
before I take you to her I must warn you, whatever she 
may say to you, and you have much to learn, to avoid all 
excitement. You are neither of you strong enough to 
bear it; she still less than yourself — for remember, her 
life hangs on a thread. The wish to see you is all that 
has kept her up for days. ’ ’ 

And with this parting caution she led me to Meta’s 
chamber, the door of which she opened. I stood a mo- 
ment on the threshold. Then, as calmly as I could, I 
entered the sick-room, at this last moment doubting my 
own strength. I was alone ; Mrs. Merton, on leaving me, 
had, however, whispered, “I shall be within call, if you 
need me.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


META S STORY, 


AS it possible that this was Meta Gray who lay 



V V before me — she whom I remembered the very 
impersonation of youth and beauty — that pale, emaci- 
ated woman, whose frail form, frailer even than my 
own, I now beheld ? Much as the past months had 
changed me, the change they had wrought in her was 
still greater. 

Her long, beautiful hair, always reminding me of im- 
prisoned sunbeams in its golden luxuriance, had been cut 
off, and now lay in short, soft curls, like those of a 
child, on her pale, blue-veined temples. Her large eyes, 
larger than ever in her excessive thinness, had a troubled, 
restless look ; her cheeks, sunken as they were, wore 
a hectic flush ; and the hand she silently extended to 
me, weak as I was, I could have crushed in my grasp. 
Still, she was very beautiful ; but oh ! such a wreck of 
what she once had been ! 

“This is kind of you, Sidney,” she said, in a voice 
whose low, hoarse tones contrasted strangely with their 
former melody. “If it had been possible, I would have 
gone to you — more- fitting, if I could; for I have much 
to say to you. * ’ 

“I am sorry to see you lying here, Meta,” I said, 
sincerely. 


212 


STD FEY ELLIOTT. 


213 


“I am not ! It is far better as it is. But you, Sidney, 
you, too, have been ill — ill and suffering, and I am re- 
sponsible for it all ! 

“ I have a long story to tell you, Sidney, and not much 
time to tell it in ; but it must be done, no matter how un- 
willingly. How you will regard me, when you know all, 
I cannot say ; but I cannot die without striving to undo, 
so far as lies in my power, the evil I have caused. 

“I am almost afraid to begin,” she went on, slowly; 
“indeed, I scarcely know what first to say. So much 
wrong, so much deception, that it will be hard to unravel 
the twisted threads. Do you remember our last meeting, 
and its consequences?” 

Ah ! I only too well remembered them.. 

“ We will not speak of that,” I said, gently, pitying 
her too visible agitation. “What is past is past, and 
cannot now be recalled.” 

“ But I wish to recall it — nay, I must! I will come to 
that in proper time. No, you must not interrupt me ; 
this wretched, racking cough will stop me often enough 
as it is. 

“I must go back years — years before I met you — to 
begin my story. When I was only eighteen, just from 
school, I was boarding with an aunt in Philadelphia. I 
was very gay, very much admired, and I enjoyed the 
life I led. 

£ ‘ Did you ever hear Hugh Ralston speak of his elder 
brother? No? The two were attending lectures in the 
city — they had both chosen the same profession — when I 
met them. Walter was handsome, far handsomer than 
his brother: he had ability, would one day be wealthy — 
in a word, his prospects- were very bright, when, on an evil 
day for us both, we met. 


214 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“ He fell in love with me, desperately, madly. I was 
flattered by his preference, for he was the best of my 
already numerous admirers ; and, pleased at the thought 
of winning him, of prevailing over the crowd of young 
ladies who admired him ; my pride and vanity gratified at 
the idea of making such a brilliant marriage as this pro- 
mised to be, for I did not love him, I engaged myself 
to him. 

“Well, for a time, it all went on smoothly enough. 
Walter was all devotion, obedient to my slightest whim, 
and I was very exacting. I don’t think he ever dreamed 
I did not reciprocate his affection — I was a good actress 
even then. He loaded me with presents. Nothing that 
he could lay at my feet or offer to my acceptance was 
withheld. If gifts could have bought love, he would have 
secured mine. 

“ I had heard Walter speak of his brother, but, strangely 
enough, we had never met. Hugh was very studious, 
not fond of visiting, and I was a little surprised, when, 
one evening, Walter brought him to see me. That very 
evening, Sidney, I learned that if ever I could love, my 
love would be given to Hugh Ralston. I told you the 
solemn truth when I said to you, ‘I love him.’ 

“ I saw him often after that. For Walter’s sake — the 
brothers were devotedly fond of each other; he treated 
me as a sister — and I tried hard to win him. I dared 
not break with Walter, who had become positively hate- 
ful to me — I told you I had never loved him — that would 
have ended my acquaintance with Hugh. I loved him, 
passionately , and I made no effort to overcome the feel- 
ing. Walter never suspected me : honorable himself, he 
believed me equally true, and he knew Hugh. 

“Our wedding-day drew near, and I had not yet 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


215 


gained my end. Hugh sent me, with a kind, brotherly 
note — I have it still- — the emeralds you once saw me wear 
• — his mother’s jewels; the most precious ornament, he 
said, he could give his brother’s wife. I sent him a line 
in reply : I should be alone that evening for an hour be- 
fore Walter came, and I requested his presence. 

“I waited impatiently for evening. He came, and, 
Sidney, I did what you never would dream possible : I 
confessed my love — and pleaded, no one knows how 
wildly, for a return. He listened in silence. I would not 
let him speak till I had said my say, and then, in a few 
calm, cold words, he told me it was impossible. He re- 
minded me of my duty to Walter, who at that moment 
entered the room. 

“I was nearly beside myself already, and the sight of 
him roused me to ungovernable fury. Sidney, I cannot 
tell you of the rest of that evening ! I dare not even 
think of it! Hugh will fill the blank for you — I 
cannot / 

“Well, years passed, and I came to Fairfield. My 
engagement with Walter was, of course, broken off. My 
life here you know pretty well. I met you, and I have 
always loved you. Something drew me towards you ; 
and still, though you were once friendly enough, I never 
could go beyond a certain point with you. You never 
fully trusted me ; and there always seemed an invisible 
barrier between us, which you would not remove, and I 
could not. Yet every day increased my admiration for 
your character, so different from my own. I would have 
given worlds to be like you ! 

“Iam telling you a strange story, Sidney.” 

“A sad one,” I said, gently. “But what has this to 
do with me ? ’ ’ 


21 6 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“ 1 am coming to that now. Don’t look at me so pity- 
ingly; I don’t deserve it. You have not heard the 
worst. 

“My old love of admiration still existed. I won Will 
Cameron’s heart, as you know, only to cast it aside. 
Then Hugh Ralston came here, and all my old love for 
him returned. 

“I knew, after that evening , I never could win him; 
yet I once more tried my power — in vain. I saw, long 
before you even suspected it, that you had gained his 
heart; and I vowed you should never be his wife, if it lay 
in my power to prevent it ! 

“I tried my best to prejudice him against you. I 
called you artful, designing, untruthful — I represented 
you in the worst light I could. Yet even when I spoke 
most bitterly against you, I loved you, contradiction 
though it may seem ; and I most deeply felt your superi- 
ority. It was all useless : Ralston knew me of old. He 
could judge for himself; and in spite of all I had done, 
all I had said, I heard at last of your engagement. 

“ But even this did not discourage me. Circumstances 
seemed to aid me; and you know a woman is all-powerful 
for evil or for good, as she wills it. Sidney, my only ex- 
cuse for it all, is my passionate, fervent love. You can 
sympathize with me there, at least. 

“If I could not have Hugh’s love, neither should you. 
But I would try once more to gain it. I told you circum- 
stances favored me. I saw your meeting with Will Came- 
ron : you were both too intent on each other to notice me 
as I passed you; but I heard him say to you, earnestly, 
that ‘ what he was he owed to you. * 

“ That was enough ! I can scarcely bear to tell you 
the rest. That very night I wrote to Hugh. I told him 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


21 / 


you had deserted him for Will Cameron, had slighted his 
love, and asked him if I could not make some little 
amends to him for your falsehood. 

“ He wrote to me, indignantly accusing me of false- 
hood. He called me unwomanly, unchristian, and told 
me nothing in the world could shake his faith in you. 

“ Sidney, that was the letter whose outside I showed 
you. Over that interview I pass ; you have reason to 
remember it. 

“Well! my plans succeeded. My knowledge of your 
character had greatly aided me. You were suspicious 
and proud ; for the first, a word was sufficient ; the second 
made you a very Spartan at concealment. I knew a word 
from you would undo all my work ; but I knew, too, that 
word would never be spoken. 

“Ah ! you may well shrink from me,” for, inexpressi- 
bly shocked at what I had heard, I moved away from the 
bedside. “I know I deserve it — it is not the least part 
of my punishment ; but I will not ask you to forgive me 
till you have heard the whole. 

“ I have little more to say. That I am sincerely, 
deeply repentant, you must know; else, how could* I 
have made this confession ? Since my illness P have seen 
things in their true light — so far as I could, I have made 
amends. Sidney,” her cold hand on mine, “ will you 
not grant me the forgiveness I so earnestly solicit, I so 
little deserve, when I tell you that I saw Hugh a few days 
since — that I told him the story I have told you, and 
that he has given me the pardon you surely .will not 
refuse ? ’ ’ 

I cannot describe the feelings with which I had listened 
to this singular statement. I could scarcely believe the 

19 


2 1 8 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT . 


evidence of my own senses. Meta watched me earn- 
estly. 

“ My best plea,” she said, feebly, “lies in the fact that 
I have restored your happiness. Once more, Sidney, 
forgive me, for ‘I have loved much ! ’ ” 

“I do forgive you,” I said at last, with an effort. 

“And in your new-found happiness, you will not think 
too unkindly of me? Hugh has yet much to tell you — 
much I could not tell. Oh ! Sidney, I can die in peace 
now, for you have forgiven me ! ’ ’ 

“Wholly, fully, entirely.” 

“You have made me very happy! One thing more. 
Sidney, bring me, from the drawer of my dressing-table, 
a little box.” 

I went to the drawer designated, where, among flowers, 
ribbons, laces — feminine adornments Meta would never 
more need — lay the box she had mentioned, a little 
Indian casket of beautiful workmanship. I gave it to 
her. She opened apd laid it in my hand. It contained 
the magnificent emeralds and opals she had worn at our 
last interview. 

“I want you to have them, Sidney; it is but right you 
should. Hugh Ralston’s wife is entitled to his mother’s 
jewels! Look on them as his gift — you will soon lose 
all association of me with them.” 

But I had forgotten all my past misery. I did not 
think now of all I had suffered. I sat, the ■ glittering 
stones *in my hand, only thinking of the sudden gleam of 
joy which was gilding my future — of the happy home 
and wedded love of which the jewels were a pledge ; and 
grateful, inexpressibly grateful to Meta, for the change 
she had wrought in my prospects. 

“Ah! I see you have forgiven me fully! ” as, with a 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 2\Q 

sudden impulse, I bent over her and kissed her. “ Thank 
you, Sidney— we are friends once more.” 

Yes, I had forgotten and forgiven all. Mrs. Merton 
came in at that moment. 

“I told you I would be her best physician, Aunt 
Mary,” Meta said. “Look at her now.” 

“ Yes ; but you have been talking too much. Sidney, 
I must send you home now.” 

And I was not sorry to obey. I wanted to be alone, to 
dream over the change the day had brought me. Yet I 
feared to move, lest I should be dreaming — I doubted if 
the sudden flash of light was really true. 

Meta seemed most unwilling to have me go. 

“I will come again,” I said, as I bade her good-bye. 

“You will not fail?” very eagerly. 

• “No,” I said, “I will see you again before long.” 

And soothed with this promise, she let me go. 

“Poor Meta! I hope she is satisfied now,” Mrs. Mer- 
ton said to me as I took my seat in the carriage. “ It has 
been a trying morning for both of you. She is truly re- 
pentant. * ’ 

“I pity her sincerely,” I said. “When may I see her 
again ? ” 

“Never, I fear. The wish to see you is all that has 
kept her alive for days ; and that gratified, she may die 
now at any minute. Poor girl, with all her faults, one. 
cannot help loving her.” 

Mrs. Merton was right. Meta died the very next day, 
calmly, peacefully as a child — Hugh’s name the last 
sound on her lips. 

“Tell Sidney the thought of her forgiveness soothed 
my last moments,” was her farewell message to me. 
“If I had my life to live over, oh! how different it 
should be ! ” 


220 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


My mother met me at the gate as I returned home. 
“Can you bear any more excitement to-day, Sidney, or 
has poor Meta’s confession been too much for you? I 
think you can. There is some one here who is only too 
anxious to see you — who I don’t think will be unwel- 
come.” 

She half led, half supported me into the house. Ten- 
derly removing my shawl, she kissed me. 

“You are better already, I see. Hugh,” as she led me 
to our cosy sitting-room, “ your patience is rewarded.” 

She left me, but not alone. For there, waiting for me, 
was Hugh Ralston, his dark eyes bent on me with love — 
unfailing love ; and the next moment his arms were around 
me, his kiss upon my brow, and in the bliss of that mo- 
ment I forgot everything — - sickness, doubt, unhappiness. 
The joy of the present effaced all memory of the suffering 
of the past. 

I pass over that interview. There are some things too 
sacred to tell, which we cherish in the inmost recesses of 
our hearts, as almost too precious for even ourselves to 
dwell upon. After the storm, comes calm ; after the 
darkness, dawn. I had found, nay, regained my safe 
haven, my sure rest, and I was content. 

4 ‘ What became of all your promised confidence in me, 
Sidney?” Hugh asked me, presently. “You are not 
wholly free from blame, you see. Why did you not 
apply to me at once, instead of condemning me unheard? 
You know I once warned you against that very thing.” 

“ I know,” I said, very penitently. “But, Hugh, con- 
sider the evidence I had. Remember, too, that I knew 
nothing of your and Meta’s antecedents, save that you 
were old acquaintances. I had no reason to doubt her 
veracity. Do not reproach me ; I have suffered enough.” 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


221 


“ I don’t think you will ever doubt me again. Promise 
me this, Sidney, that you will let me share in future every 
shadow that comes over your mind.” 

And I was glad to give the promise he required. 

“ Poor Meta! ” I said, at last. “Hugh, do you know 

I am grateful to her now?” 

“It was not hard to forgive her,” he said, earnestly. 

I I She was truly penitent ; and what is more, she has re- 
stored us to each other. Had it not been for her, our 
mutual pride would, I fear, have kept us apart. ” 

“She referred me to you for part of her story,” I said. 
“Hugh, much as I pity her, I confess I am anxious to 
hear the whole.” 

“It is only what you have a right to ask,” he said. 
“Even if I had not promised her, I would supply the 
missing links in her story: it is but due to you that you 
should know my past, and how she was connected with 
it. Part, I know, she has told you; the rest falls to my 
share. Not to-day, dear ; it is too painful to me, even 
now, to wish to cloud our reconciliation with those dis- 
tressing memories ; but to-morrow — ’ ’ 

“You had best say to-morrow,” my mother’s cheerful 
voice, cheerful once more, interrupted. “Hugh, I am 
going to send you off — this poor child has had enough to 
go through to-day. You must go home, and she must go 
to bed. It is only excitement that has kept her up.” 

And in spite of all our entreaties, my mother carried 
her point. Hugh grumbled, and so did I. It was of 
no use, she was firm. 

It was with a very thankful heart that I lay down to rest 
that evening. That long April day had brought me won- 
derful tidings, “good tidings of great joy.” 

Excitement generally keeps us awake : it was not so 

ig * 


222 . 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


with me. The change from utter loneliness and despair 
to peace, perfect peace, soothed my long-agitated mind, 
and I slept, for the first time for many months, as calmly 
and peacefully as a child. 

For the storms of my life were over, and, so far as 
mortal power can guarantee it, my happiness was now 
secure. 

I would hear the missing links in Meta’s story to- 
morrow. 




CHAPTER XXVI. 

FIVE YEARS AGO. 

I T was not till afternoon, however, that Hugh came to 
see me. The rush of the preceding day had done me 
good ; the change in my prospects had effectually roused 
me from my listless apathy, and restored me to something 
like the old Sidney Elliott. Hugh told me, when he did 
come, that the night’s rest had done wonders. 

“But why were you not here this morning? ” I asked 
him. “Here I looked' for you, counting every moment, 
and you never came. Why did you play truant? ” 

“I had far rather have been with you, dear,” very 
seriously. “My morning was spent by a death -bed — 
Meta’s ! I knew you would not grudge her that poor 
comfort. ’ ’ 

Then it was all over ! I could but hope that all was 
well. 

Hugh sat gazing thoughtfully into the fire, which, April 
though it was, blazed on the hearth, before he spoke 
again. It was with an effort that he did speak at last. 

“Sidney, had it not been for my solemn promise to 
Meta, I should be tempted to ask you to place confidence 
enough in me to let me bury the past in oblivion, and not 
recall matters which even now are inexpressibly painful 
to me. But, unfortunately, her past is so interwoven with 
my own, has so influenced mine, that I cannot touch on 
it without speaking of her ; and there are some things you 

223 


224 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


ought to know, for as yet you know nothing of my early 
life. What did she tell you?” 

I repeated Meta’s story to him. Then he told me, as 
he had promised, what she had left unsaid. Not as I shall 
tell it, however, in one continued narrative, but in broken, 
conversational parts, and much more at length than I 
shall relate it. I shall use his own words, however — 
they are far better than any I could employ. 

“I shall have to go back years, Sidney, to my early 
boyhood. Walter, my brother, of whom Meta spoke to 
you, was a year my senior. We were at school together, 
we kept pace in all our studies, for we were devotedly at- 
tached to each other, and I worked hard that we might 
not be separated. I think now that he did not exert 
himself as much as he might have done, so that I might 
keep up with him. 

“We entered and passed through college together, and 
after graduating, both — something rather unusual for 
brothers — adopted the same profession, intending, when 
we received our diplomas, to enter into partnership. For 
the first time we were separated. I came, as you know, 
to Fairfield, to study under your father, one of the most 
distinguished physicians in the State ; but as he could only 
receive one of us, Walter went to Philadelphia. 

“ I was to join him there to attend lectures, and I was 
not sorry when the time came. But I found our two 
years’ separation had, as it always does, produced some 
change. Walter was handsome, attractive, reported to 
be wealthy: our uncle, whose name he bore, had lately 
died, and left him the greater part of his property, I re- 
ceiving the remainder, and, student though he was, he was 
much sought after in society. 

“I cared very little for it. I was devoted to the study 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


225 

of my profession, in which I was deeply interested, and 
I resisted all Walter’s efforts to take me out with him. I 
did not wonder at his success, for he was extremely hand- 
some, with none of the vanity which handsome men 
generally feel ; and as he did not neglect his studies, there * 
was no possible reason why he should not enjoy himself. 

“We had been nearly a year in the city when he first 
met Miss Gray. He had no concealments from me, and 
I knew very well that he yielded immediately to her 
power. I confess, I was very jealous at first. I could 
not bear to give my brother up so completely, for I knew, 
though brotherly love and confidence might still continue, 
that there were interests, ties, nearer and dearer still, 
and selfish though I knew it to be, I could not help the 
feeling. 

“Knowing, seeing what I did, I was not surprised 
when at last he told me of their engagement. Then he 
gave me no peace till I had promised to go with him to 
see my future sister. It w'as with the utmost reluctance 
I made this promise — putting off its fulfilment from da/ 
to day, from some one of those strange feelings which at 
times come over us, holding us back, like invisible hands, 
from certain actions. I made every excuse I could ; until 
Walter nearly got angry with me, and then I gave up. 

“ I wondered at my reluctance — I did not wonder at 
Walter’s passionate attachment when I saw her. Sidney, 
you know what she was when she first came here ; but you 
have no idea of what she was then. Five years ago she 
was just nineteen, and the most beautiful creature I had 
ever beheld. She reminded me of the old pictures of 
angels, fair-haired and graceful, which we see in the works 
of the old masters. Her eyes were the only contradic- 
tion ; beautiful as they undoubtedly were, there was at ' 


226 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


times a restless, steely look in them I did not like, though 
they could be soft and melting enough when she chose. 
She was but a shadow of her former self when she came 
here. 

“Well, she won me completely. You can form no 
idea of the fascination such a woman as Meta Gray, 
beautiful, intelligent, full of tact as she was, can exercise 
over our sex. Walter was fairly infatuated with her, and 
I could not blame him — I had much ado to keep my 
own head cool. No, Sidney, I never loved her. That 
she fascinated me, I confess; but I never really loved — 
never wished to make any woman my wife save yourself. 

“ Her manner to us both was perfect. Timidly affec- 
tionate to Walter, gracefully shy to him, she treated me with 
a degree of sisterly freedom which was positively charming. 
I had no sisters, and the idea of finding one in Walter’s 
wife was peculiarly gratifying to me; and, judging as I 
did, all women by my knowledge of what my mother had 
been, I thought Meta — I had learned to give her that 
name — must be, judging by what I saw of her, ‘a per- 
fect woman, nobly planned.’ I yielded to her charm. 

“ So far it was all right. Now I must take up the story 
where Meta dropped it. You know of the present I sent 
her? I am glad you have those stones, Sidney — they 
are inseparably connected with my mother, and I shall 
be glad to see you wear something that was hers. 

“Meta wrote me a brief note, thanking me in very 
graceful terms, and asking me to call that evening, as she 
wished to express her gratitude in person. Walter laughed 
when I told him of the appointment. 

‘“Don’t you two get up too desperate a flirtation, 
Hugh, old fellow. If I were not to be married so soon, 
I should be a little afraid of you. Tell Meta I will be 
there, almost as soon as yourself. * 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


227 


“ He was in high spirits, and I left him, he laughing at 
me, and I little dreaming how the evening would end. 

“ Sidney, I solemnly, positively assure you that I was 
totally unprepared for the interview which followed. 
That she had never loved Walter I never had suspected 
— her very actions had proved the contrary. I could not 
understand how any one could be such an adept at dis- 
simulation as to deceive, not only myself, but her lover. 
I had scarcely recovered from this surprise, when, to my 
amazement, she acknowledged her love for me, and with 
an earnestness, too, which rendered it impossible for me 
to doubt her truth. 

“ I reasoned with her, I tried to argue with her, for I 
was inexpressibly shocked. I tried to silence her — all 
in vain. I pleaded her duty to Walter. She had but one 
reply to all I said — she loved me. 

“ And for a moment I did feel flattered. That I, with 
no effort of my own, should have won this peerlessly beau- 
tiful creature ! It was only for a moment — her hand was 
on mine, I felt her breath on my cheek, her low voice 
whispered, ‘ Dear Hugh ! * — when it all flashed over me : 
my noble, trusting brother, her unwomanly conduct ; and 
I was master of myself. 

“ I spoke severely — I upbraided her and myself, 
though my own conscience was clear. Even now, I can 
find nothing with which to reproach myself. She lis- 
tened — sullenly at first, so long as I spoke of myself; 
but when I began to speak of Walter, of her duty to him, 
she' became furious. 

“ At that moment he came into the room. He looked 
astonished, as well he might, at the scene he had inter- 
rupted. Meta’s eyes were fairly flashing, her cheeks 
burning — she was terribly excited. 


228 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


“Walter went up to her, and spoke to her in his usual 
gentle manner. His approach seemed to excite her more 
•than ever, and he looked inquiringly at me. 

“ ‘ Hugh,’ he began, but she rushed at me. 

“ ‘ Speak, if you dare ! ’ in tones shrill and harsh. She 
had been standing, a moment before, by a cabinet of In- 
dian curiosities. Walter advanced towards her. 

“ ‘ Dear Meta, how is this? You are giving me a strange 
welcome.’ 

“He laid his hand on her arm as he spoke. She 
looked at him one moment ; then, with a laugh hoarse, 
yet shrill, ending in a shriek, she raised her other hand, 
which had been concealed in the folds of her dress, 
and struck at him. I saw something glitter — she had, 
unseen, snatched a dagger from the cabinet. I rushed 
forward, and before her arm- descended, I caught it. 

“Foiled here, she turned on me, screaming horribly 
all the time. We were both strong men; but it was as 
much as we could do to hold that graceful, delicate form, 
till the paroxysm of rage subsided. The noise brought 
her aunt, Mrs. Lee, to the parlor. Meta was calm enough 
now ; but she was — insane ! 

“ Her aunt told us the story that night. Her father, 
whom her mbther had married much against her family’s 
wishes, had himself died hopelessly insane. This, how- 
ever, had been carefully kept from the daughter, and 
they had hoped she would escape. 

“Poor Walter! Philadelphia had become hateful to 
him, and that very evening, after a long Jalk with me, he 
left the city — never to return. I waited a few weeks, at 
Mrs. Lee’s express request, to assist her. Meta was 
placed in a private asylum, where she would be well 
treated, and the superintendent gave us hopes of her 
final recovery. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


229 


“ The matter was kept very quiet. It was given out that 
Walter had broken off his engagement — he was very 
willing to have that said — and that Meta had left the city 
to visit some of her relatives. 

“One year later, Meta was released, cured. Her in- 
sanity had been very harmless — no violent outbreak, save 
the one in which it first had manifested itself. Meantime 
I had followed Walter out West, where, in about two 
years, he married, wholly cured of his first love. Then 
I came, as you know, to Fairfield. 

“In all this time I had wholly lost sight of Meta Gray. 
I wanted to forget her, for she had caused both Walter 
and myself such severe suffering that I could not even 
think calmly of her. You may imagine my surprise at 
meeting her here. I would never have set foot in Fair- 
field had I known her whereabouts ; but it was too late to 
change. 

“I soon found she had never forgotten her old love for 
me. In that, at least, she was constant. I could not ap- 
preciate it. Most of all, as I came to know you, I won- 
dered at your intimacy with her. 

“Well, I believe you know the rest. There is no need 
for me to repeat it.” 

I had listened, deeply interested, to this recital. It 
fully explained all Meta had left unsaid, and I pitied her far 
more than I blamed her. My own love for Hugh made 
me forgive hers. 

“ ‘ The evil that men do lives after them,’ ” he went 
on, after a pause. “It is the contrary in this case : she 
has undone the evil she caused. Without her, Sidney, I 
never should have regained you — I can forgive her 
everything after that ! ’ ’ 

“ So can I,” I said, softly. “Let us forget her, Hugh. 

20 


230 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


She has passed wholly out of our lives. Our confidence 
in each other is restored — we need ask nothing more.” 

“We will never allude to this again, Sidney. Now 
that it is told, I am not sorry you know it. Nothing in 
the world can part us or come between us now.” 

“We need not dwell on the past, Hugh. The future 
lies before us, and we need not trouble ourselves over 
past sorrows.” 

“And, whatever comes, we will always trust one 
another.” 

Meta’s name was never mentioned between us again. 

I rapidly regained my health. So soon as I was able 
to leave home, Hugh wished to take me to the sea-shore. 
We were to be married, and, ere many weeks had passed, 
I was myself again : happiness is the surest restorative. 

Two or three evenings before our marriage-day, I came 
to Hugh’s side. Kneeling playfully by him, I laid my 
hand in his. 

“Hugh ! I have a confession to make to you.” 

“Well, what is it? What unpardonable sin have you 
been committing ? ’ ’ 

“Look at my hand first.” 

He inspected it seriously, then raised it to his lips. 

“I did not ask you to do that,” I said, snatching it 
away. He imprisoned it again. “What do you see 
in it?” 

“I see only a white hand, fit for all womanly duty; 
that, whatever it has to do, will do it with its might ! ’ ’ 

“No ink-spots?” I asked. 

“None,” looking at me mischievously. 

With a desperate effort to maintain my own gravity, I 
raised my other hand and laid my book on his knee. 
He took it up, gravely enough now, turning over its 
leaves. 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


231 

“So I am marrying an authoress, after all. Well, I 
guess I shall survive it ! ’ ’ 

“ Hugh ! you knew it all the time? ” 

“ Your mother sent it to me while you were sick.” 

“ Do you want me to give up my pen? ” 

“I have changed my opinion in many things since I 
first knew you, Sidney. No, dear, you may write as 
much as you will. You have taught me that a woman 
can use her mental powers without ceasing to be truly 
womanly — without losing her delicacy and reserve. 
I would not now have you lay aside your pen. The 
world must have books, and it had better read such books 
as you will write — pure, true, elevating — than those 
which circulate in countless numbers. I am not afraid 
literary pursuits will ever make you neglect your husband ; 
and, separated as we must be, from the nature of my pro- 
fession, much of the time, I shall be glad to think you 
will have something to interest and amuse you in my 
absence. ’ * 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


LAND AT LAST. 


E were married in June — a bright, sunshiny day, 



early in the month. There was not a cloud in 


the sky — the country, it seemed to me, looked its very 
. loveliest. Our parlor was bedecked with roses, for it 
was the season of their most profuse bloom, and in-doors 
and out, the soft summer air was balmy with the delicate 
perfume of the queen of flowers, for garden and parlor 
were all aglow with her loveliness. 

Very quietly, that sweet morning, in the presence of 
only a few friends, in our own parlor, we were married : 
very quietly, for both Hugh and myself so wished it. 
We both felt the solemnity of the occasion too deeply to 
wish for any save our best friends to be with us. 

We spent two weeks — two happy weeks — at the sea- 
side. A short holiday, yet all Hugh could take. ' Then 
we came home. 

My own dear home ! earth’s dearest spot! every pass- 
ing year has but the more endeared it to me ! For my 
life has been happy — so happy that I sometimes tremble 
at my own felicity. 

My mother lives with us, the most honored member of 
our household. Advancing years only seem tp render 
her more precious to me. “ Her children rise up and 
call her blessed.” She is a lovely and lovable old lady. 
Old, did I say? Such as she never grow old — they 


232 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


233 

ripen ; ^nd she says she is young again in her grand- 
children. 

For there are children’s voices in our house now — 
children’s feet patter over the floors, children’s sweet 
smiles and gleesome laughter to gladden our hearts. I 
have two darlings — my boy, a sturdy rogue of four sum- 
mers, with black, flashing eyes and raven hair — a rest- 
less, sprightly boy, reminding me, with his warm heart 
and already decided manner, of his father. I only m-e 
he may grow up like him. He bears my name — Sidney. 
I rebelled against this at first, for I did not think my son 
should bear any but his father’s name. But Hugh would 
have it so : he said the boy was resolute and independent 
as his mother — that my name would suit him; and, like 
a good wife, I yielded. His grandmother spoils him, so 
far as he can be spoiled ; but he will be none the worse 
for the love she lavishes on him ; and I love my little son 
with a strange mixture of affection and pride — the latter 
only equalled by that his father takes in him. 

But dearest to her father’s heart is our little two-year 
old girl — our little May-flower — who came to us in that 
sweet month. She has inherited, from her Scottish 
grandmother, with her name, Mary — that name hallowed 
alike by poetry, religion, and history — her soft, serious 
blue eyes, and her light, golden hair, in glossy curls over 
her lovely little head. Hugh fairly worships his little 
girl, and she is never so happy nor so good as with him. 

And my husband — my noble Hugh — what shall I say 
of him ? I love him, if that be possible, even better after 
our years of wedded life than I did when we were first 
united. His name ranks high in our community — there 
is no one more sought after or respected than Hugh 
Ralston. 

20* 


234 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


I have not given up my pen. It has brought me, under 
my assumed name, fame and fortune. But no one, out- 
side of my home, sees in the quiet doctor’s wife, the 
“ distinguished authoress.” I have no wish for publici- 
ty — the approbation of my home circle is enough for me. 

Mr. and Mrs. Merton are still living — still we count 
them among our dearest friends. Over Meta’s grave the 
turf is green. A simple stone stands at the head ; it bears 
her name, the date of her birth and of her death — no- 
thing more. 

I see Annie Perkins occasionally; she has no children. 
Her marriage has changed her, and not for the better. 
From a slight, delicate, refined-looking girl, she has 
grown into a stout, ruddy woman, almost coarse-looking, 
and nearly as substantial as her husband. I never see her 
without thinking 

“ Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 

What is fine within thee growing coarse, to sympathize wijh clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.” 

My own marriage was followed, within two years, by 
that of Will Cameron and Kate Strong. He is rising 
rapidly in his profession. They are a happy couple. 
Kate has done him good — she is just the character he 
needed in a wife. 

Of myself I can say but little. My life, since my 
marriage, has flowed on in one calm, unbroken stream. 
Happy in my husband’s love, my home, my children, 
what can I ask for more ? 

I am writing these lines in the evening, in our own sit- 
ting-room. The astral burner sheds its pleasant light 
over my paper; my mother sits dozing in her chair; my 


SIDNEY ELLIOTT. 


235 


children, “ tired of play,” have been asleep this hour. 
I am waiting for Hugh to come home. 

There he is ! He comes and looks over my shoulder 
at what I have written. 

“ Give me the pen, Sidney.” 

“No, you will only spoil my ending.” 

But I am gently lifted from my seat — the pen taken 
from my hand. 

“ May I not write what I think of my wife? ” 

• And it is my turn to read, my hand on his shoulder, as 
he writes the words — I can scarcely see, for my eyes 
grow dim with happy tears : 

“The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.” 


THE END. 



























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